


Your Sins Into Me

by Emoryems



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emoryems/pseuds/Emoryems
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karofsky’s assault went much further than anyone knew, and later, at Dalton, Kurt’s temporary roommate gets an unexpected glimpse into Kurt Hummel’s less-than-perfect life. Warning: explicit non-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sins Into Me

Part One: Your Sins Into Me

  


Kurt smiles as his phone buzzes in his pocket, reaching to pull it out as he crosses the parking lot to the front entrance of McKinley High.  His morning is already going well; there have been no hoards of lumbering Neanderthals awaiting him at the dumpsters, no early-morning slushie facial, no muttered or outright yelled slurs of any kind.  This day is already looking up.

 

Good morning! --- Blaine

 

Blaine sends a morning text when he is waiting for his first class to start, and Kurt has come to expect them around the same time every day.  It never fails to put a smile on his face, or to set his heart racing in pleasure and joy. 

 

The friendship he is building with Blaine has been blossoming over the last two weeks since his failed attempt at spying on the Dalton Academy Warblers, and Kurt can’t wait to see how it proceeds.  The way they’re going, getting coffee or dinner or going to shows -- it’s exciting and new.  Kurt looks forward to every meeting they have, every text message, phone call, email or Facebook wall post. 

 

Blaine’s an amazing friend; he’s willing to talk about fashion (even if he doesn’t have the wonderful taste that Kurt does), laughs at all of Kurt’s jokes (which Kurt likes to attribute to Blaine actually understanding what he’s saying), and will debate gay rights with the same fervour that Kurt does.  He can’t do these things with most of his friends – sure, he can go shopping with Mercedes or Tina, or get in some jokes that actually make Finn or Mike crack a smile, but this is different.  Blaine and Kurt get along in a way that is deeper than he’s ever experienced; they understand each other on a whole other level.

 

Kurt sends off a message in reply just before he reaches the doors, slipping his phone back in his pocket smoothly, and enters the hallowed halls of his high school.  There are teenagers and teachers milling throughout, cheerleaders in their uniforms, jocks wearing their team jackets.  There are people who exemplify a stereotype and people who break them all, and Kurt just keeps his head high and watches them move around him. 

 

He can’t wait to get out of here, to move on to something bigger, something better.  Somewhere very, very far away from Lima, Ohio. 

 

He’s got lights and tall buildings dancing in his imagination as he approaches his locker and Mercedes, who is standing at hers. 

 

Waving at his friend as he comes to a stop, Kurt notes Karofsky standing about 20 feet down the hall, his hulking shoulders encased in his letterman jacket and a smug look of desire mixed with contempt glaring through his eyes.  Kurt quickly averts his gaze, focusing on putting his books in his locker and checking his reflection.

 

Mercedes comes up beside him and smiles in greeting, linking one of her arms through his for their mutual trip toward the science classrooms. 

 

“Hey, Boo,” she says.

 

“Hey,” he says back. “Did you finish working on the project for Glee?”

 

Mercedes raises a brow and purses her lips, turning a sassy look at him.  “Oh, I’ve got it down. You doubted me?”

 

Kurt chuckles and shakes his head. “Never.”

 

When they get to where the rooms are, Kurt walks Mercedes to the door to hers and says, “See you at lunch.”  Turning on his heel to stride two doors down, Kurt feels the prickling discomfort of eyes watching him, and he catches sight of a red and white jacket out of the corner of his eye. 

 

After the incident in the locker room with Karofsky, the other boy has been dogging his every move, staying just out of contact, but always there.  It’s frightening on a whole new level for Kurt, who is unsure what the other boy is thinking, what he is planning.  If he’s planning anything.  All he knows is that he wants to stay as far away as he can from the bigger boy.

 

So Kurt ducks his head slightly and walks faster, only slowing down when he’s in his classroom and has reached his desk. 

 

Halfway through a stilted and monotonous explanation about Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection, Kurt’s phone vibrates and a message from Blaine appears.

 

Want to get coffee tomorrow? Normal time? ---Blaine

 

Kurt grins.

 

Definitely ---Kurt

 

~

 

Kurt stays late in the library of his school that night, researching for a history project that is due in two weeks.  He likes to be prepared, and he likes to know that he has everything under control, so he gets this done without the company of his friends.  Whenever they accompany him he ends up talking or singing, or a variety of other activities that are fun, but which lead to procrastination and late nights of finishing off school work just before it is due.

 

When he finishes, closing his books and making his way to his locker, the halls of McKinley are empty, leaving Kurt’s footsteps to echo among the cold metal of the lockers as he walks.  The floor is scuffed from a long day of students trampling their way through, and Kurt can see more than one spatter of slushie across the walls and tiles.  It seems that the janitors have given up on cleaning them as they happen.

 

His locker is, to his relief, free of derogatory commentary for once, and there is no tack taped to the backside of his combination lock.  He doesn’t know who started that particular tradition, but it has been common for the past month, leading to many a sore finger. 

 

Careful to pack lightly, only the necessary books for homework, Kurt shuts his locker and slings his bag over his shoulder.  As he starts to turn around he hears footsteps at his back, moving with steady assurance.  Before he can turn to see who it is, however, he is pressed forward with a powerful shove. 

 

“Hey!” he protests, trying to get his arms between him and the locker to push back.  He doesn’t get the chance; there are two large hands grasping at his elbows, holding him in place.  The hands barely give at all as he struggles, and soon both of his wrists are held in one of his attacker’s fists. 

 

“Don’t struggle,” a voice behind him says, and Kurt recognizes it instantly. He freezes for a moment in shock before disbelief and fear take over.

 

Karofsky has him pinned face-first to the lockers, arms held firmly together at the small of his back in one meaty fist.  Kurt can feel the larger boy’s breath on his neck, raising the hairs there to attention.

 

“What are you doing?” Kurt huffs out angrily, pushing back with as much strength as he can muster.  The body behind his only shifts slightly from the movement, and before Kurt can gain more than two or three inches of space between him and the lockers, he is slammed forward even harder than before.

 

Breath knocked from his body, Kurt can barely protest when he is abruptly spun around and propelled down the hall.

 

“Let go, Karofsky,” Kurt demands, trying to twist his wrists out of the tight hold they are in.  As he is shoved forward again, Kurt stumbles, and he would have fallen if it wasn’t for Karofsky’s hold tightening, yanking his arms up roughly.  Kurt lets out a choked off scream as he feels his shoulders protesting at the pull.

 

“Shut up,” Karofsky says, leading them further down the hall.  Kurt had been at his locker when Karofsky had originally grabbed him, and now they are heading toward the area of the school where the gyms and locker rooms are.

 

Realizing where they are headed, Kurt feels the rush of fight-or-flight thrumming in his body intensify. “What are you doing?  I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Karofsky.  Just let me go.”

 

Karofsky’s grip tightens, and Kurt knows he’s going to have bruises. “I told you to shut up, Hummel.”

 

The door to the boy’s locker room is fast approaching, and Kurt tries to spin to the right, but Karofsky’s other hand comes up and grasps his shoulder tight, maintaining his hold. 

 

Kurt can feel the blood rushing in his veins, pumping through his arteries; his whole body is singing with adrenaline and fear.

 

As Karofsky boots the door open and shoves him through with a rough two-handed push, Kurt yells out as loud as he can, hoping someone will hear.  The rough shove has sent him tumbling to the ground, and his hands ache from catching his weight.  Kurt scrambles to his feet, but before he can take more than two steps, Karofsky is on him again.

 

“Stop screaming,” growls Karofsky, crowding Kurt backward.

 

Scared and angry, Kurt backs away, trying to lead the bigger boy in a direction that won’t leave him trapped, and yells, “Then leave me alone!”

 

Karofsky’s eyes are angry, but with a calm directive underneath that scares Kurt more than any rage could have.

 

Kurt’s back hits a wall, and he tries to sidle sideways to escape, but Karofsky grabs his left arm, stopping him from moving.  Without a second thought, Kurt swings his right arm up, bunching his hand into a tight fist to deliver a glancing blow to Karofsky’s jaw.

 

Karofsky lets go of Kurt’s arm to cradle his face, taking a single step back, and Kurt uses the opportunity to dodge around the bulk of the other teenager and makes for the door.  He’s close enough to reach out and pull it open when an arm wraps around his waist from behind and tugs him back against the taller boy’s chest.

 

Arms pinned to his sides, Kurt struggles wildly and screams, “Let go!” He throws his head back, hoping to get lucky and break Karofsky’s nose, but he only manages to hit a shoulder.

 

As he is bringing a knee upward to drive his foot back into Karofsky’s legs, Kurt is released.  He stumbles forward and spins, trying to keep track of where Karofsky is, and then he’s suddenly on the ground, a sharp, throbbing pain ringing throughout his body.  The right side of his face is on fire, and his left shoulder stings from hitting the floor so hard. 

 

When he looks up, he sees Karofsky standing above him, his hand still slightly elevated from delivering the hard backhand.  Groaning in pain, Kurt starts to roll to his knees, knowing that he has to get away from Karofsky.  Get somewhere safe.

 

Karofsky puts a foot to his ribs, not quite hard enough to be considered a kick, and pushes him over onto his back.  The weight of the footballer’s foot is intense as he pushes it down on his chest, and Kurt fears that he won’t be able to breathe if the other boy decides to step down any harder. 

 

Disoriented from the hit and winded from the pressure on his chest, Kurt doesn’t immediately realize what is happening until Karofsky has once again gathered his wrists together, holding them over his head.  The other boy crouches down, and straddles Kurt’s waist, knees placed firmly on either side of Kurt’s chest.

 

Kurt is wearing a black tie, the one with a happy face on it, and Karofsky’s fingers tug at the material, undoing the Full Windsor knot with sharp movements that pull at Kurt’s neck.  When he has the tie in hand, he pulls Kurt’s arms down in front of him and wraps first one wrist in a tight knot, and then the other, and then both together.

 

Throughout this, when Kurt realized what Karofsky was doing, Kurt had tried struggling, tried bucking the heavy weight from his body.  It all crashes down on him, though, exactly what this is about, when he pushes up with his hips, trying to dislodge the other boy.  And finds a thick hardness pressing back against him.

 

Eyes widening, and a shot of fear greater than before piercing him, Kurt lets out a noise of protest, and begs, “Karofsky, let me go. Please. Please, I won’t tell anyone what happened, just let me go.”

 

Karofsky just stares down at him, an expression of longing coming over his face, and then he dips down low, beside Kurt’s ear, and whispers, “No.”

 

When Karofsky grinds down onto him, pressing his hard length into Kurt’s stomach, and moans in his ear, Kurt tries to swing his arms up to hit him, tries to get a knee up to dislodge him, but he can’t.  Karofsky has a couple of inches and about 60 pounds on him.  He just doesn’t have the strength.

 

Kurt is saying, “Stop, please, just stop. I don’t want this,” over and over again, but Karofsky isn’t listening to him.  Or maybe he is, because every time Kurt begs him to stop, he pushes down harder, groans louder. He’s getting off on Kurt’s begging; enjoying it.

 

After what feels like an eternity, Karofsky stills his hips, panting softly into the side of Kurt’s neck where his face is buried.  “Mmm,” he moans, “you smell good, Hummel.” Karofsky keeps him pinned tightly to the floor as he brings a hand up to fist tightly in Kurt’s hair, pulling the trapped boy’s head back and exposing his throat.  “Such a prissy little fag.”

 

As Karofsky licks up the side of his neck, laving at his ear, Kurt feels tears start to form, collecting in the corners of his eyes.  “Please. Please, don’t.”

 

Karofsky pulls back, sending a dark smile down at Kurt.  “Don’t cry, Hummel, you’ll enjoy this,” he says, brushing a finger under Kurt’s eyes to wipe up the tears.  Kurt tries to jerk his head away from the touch, but he can’t move far, and his head spins sharply with the movement.

 

Trailing his finger down the side of Kurt’s face, down the smooth expanse of his throat, Karofsky reaches the top button of Kurt’s shirt, which he proceeds to pop open.  Kurt feels Karofsky’s hands working at his shirt, feels as his fingers trail along his chest as they go, and it is as if Karofsky is leaving a path of slime and disgust everywhere he touches. 

 

As he undoes the last button, Karofsky yanks Kurt upward by his arms, forcing the slighter boy to stand as he does.  Kurt’s head swims from the abrupt change in position, and he stumbles along as Karofsky turns him with a painful grip on his shoulders and manhandles him toward the showers. 

 

Kurt doesn’t even get a chance to try and run before he’s pressed up against the half-wall of a shower stall, its bricks digging painfully into his stomach.  Karofsky’s dick is pressed up against his lower back and the taller teen thrusts against Kurt even as he reaches up and pulls the shirt down, off of Kurt’s shoulders to rest as far down his arms as it will go. 

 

“Damn, Hummel, who did you fuck in a previous life to get skin like this?” Karofsky is running his hands over Kurt’s upper back and shoulders, his calluses rough on Kurt’s skin.

 

“Please stop.  Stop. I don’t want this – I don’t want you touching me.” Kurt’s throat is getting sore from begging, but he can’t stop.  He doesn’t want Karofsky touching him, and he doesn’t want his hands petting across his body, groping without any remorse.

 

Kurt thought it couldn’t get any worse, that Karofsky’s wandering hands and trailing lips across his back were the most disgusting and vile things that could ever happen to him, and then he feels hands at his pants, pulling at the button and dragging down the zipper. 

 

“No!” he yells, bucking back against Karofsky, struggling against the hold keeping him captive. “No! Don’t, Karofsky!” The hands don’t stop, though, and soon he feels cold air rush around him as he is fully exposed.  “Stop, damnit!”

 

A hand presses into the middle of his back, effectively trapping his hands beneath his own body, and bending him over the wall.  Karofsky’s other hand is on his bare buttocks, caressing over them, and Kurt, through the nausea and tears, can almost feel the reverence steaming off of the other boy. 

 

~

 

Karofsky smells of sweat and Irish Spring soap.

 

Still squirming, trying to avoid the hand as it explores his body, Kurt’s chest heaves with sobs.  They are harsh and a combination between angry and hysterical. 

 

When the hand on his back drops away, Kurt feels some relief, but then he’s immediately confronted by how wrong he was, thinking that maybe Karofsky would back off, because there are two hands on his cheeks now, pulling them apart and squeezing. 

 

“No! No, Karofsky!” Kurt attempts to straighten up, to pull away in any manner.  The solid hit to the side of his head, the same side that had been hit before, sends him reeling sideways.  For a few seconds everything goes dark.

 

When his vision returns, he’s slumped over the ledge, head pounding painfully.  He groans softly, trying to focus on the tiles of the shower in front of him.

 

“You know,” says Karofsky, who’s still got one hand on him to hold him still, “this would go easier on you if you just quit struggling.”

 

“Fuck you, you Neanderthal,” Kurt slurs, blinking hard to maintain focus.

 

Kurt hears the sound of a zipper, and then the slide of clothes as Karofsky moves behind him, out of sight. 

 

“Come on, Hummel, you can do better than that. Seriously, I’ve heard that one so many times that I’ve started to respond to it.” Karofsky steps up close behind Kurt’s body, wrapping an arm around his chest and pinching a nipple between his fingers.  As he rolls the sensitive pebble around and plays with it, Karofsky licks at the junction of Kurt’s neck and shoulder, sucking and biting the flesh until it bruises.

 

Kurt is still squirming, twisting this way and that, but Karofsky isn’t budging, and his head is spinning so hard and fast that he is having trouble focusing.  When his assailant gives an especially sharp bite and rubs against him, his hard dick grazing Kurt’s backside, the pale countertenor cries out.  “No.  Stop touching me. Please, just stop. Stop.”

 

Karofsky pants into his neck as he pulls away from where he has left a deeply purple bruise and blood-speckled bite marks. “Yeah, Hummel, keep moving.  You’re gonna feel so good, so tight, I bet.”

 

Kurt stops squirming when he hears that, fear running his blood cold.  This can’t be happening.

 

There is a quiet noise of a cap being popped open, and Kurt’s eyebrows knot together in confusion, and then Karofsky’s chest is pressed up against his back, making it hard to breathe.

 

“Just remember, fag, this is for my benefit, not yours.” A hand slips down between their bodies, between his legs, and a slick finger slides from behind his balls to press at his entrance.

 

As he feels this, Kurt kicks backward with a leg, trying to hit Karofsky; he manages to glance off of a leg, but he doesn’t have much leverage in this position, and he is soon right back where he’d been before. 

 

 

The hand is back, finger pressing against him, and then into him, and all Kurt can do is shake his head back and forth, muttering a constant stream of, “No, no, no, God -- please stop, please.”

 

Kurt’s muscles tense around the intrusion, and it burns so horribly that Kurt’s breath is taken from him.  When the finger pulls out and is quickly replaced by two covered in even more lube, Kurt tries to stop his muscles from clenching down, but it happens anyway, and he sobs loudly through the pain.

 

“Oh, Hummel, I was right.  You’re so tight; gonna feel amazing,” Karofsky murmurs, leaving rough nips and bites across his back and neck. “I can’t wait to be in here.” He punctuates his words with a hard thrust of his fingers, scissoring them forcefully.

 

Kurt, by this time, has tuned out a lot of what Karofsky is saying, trying instead to focus on the tiles in his vision.  He can remember when he talked to Sam, told him he was free, right here just a few weeks ago. 

 

Groaning when the fingers pull from his body, Kurt flinches as a hand travels down across his stomach to his abdomen where it rests for a while, and then reaches down to tug at the top of his pubic hairs.

 

“I always imagined you’d shave these,” Karofsky says, and proceeds to wrap his hand around Kurt’s soft penis.

 

“Let go,” Kurt demands. “Don’t – don’t!”

 

Karofsky’s hand is wandering around his privates, fingers rolling Kurt’s balls and caressing his dick, leaving nothing untouched, nothing unsullied.  “Nothing, Hummel? You know, I thought you’d enjoy getting some action.”

 

“Don’t you even say that,” Kurt says, his voice low, but filled with passion and bile. “I don’t want you touching me.”

 

“Uh huh,” says Karofsky. “That’s unfortunate.” His voice betrays the words, and Kurt can hear no remorse seeping through.  “The way you practically beg for this, shaking your ass around at all of us, it makes me think you’ve been planning to seduce me.”

 

“No!” he yells in response, jerking in Karofsky’s hands. 

 

“Yeah,” Karofsky continues, “I bet you planned everything.  To make this happen.” Karofsky’s lips travel over his jaw, dipping to mouth at the corner of Kurt’s lips.  “You’re nothing but a dirty little cock slut.”

 

Karofsky pulls back, one of his hands dropping from Kurt’s body. 

 

The crinkling of a packet opening, and the shifting of Karofsky’s body, tell Kurt more than seeing what he’s doing could, and a heavy weight catches his chest.  “Don’t,” he whimpers, “don’t, no, don’t, please.  I don’t – I don’t want this.”

 

Karofsky shoves him forward to bend over the wall with one hand, clenching his fingers in the material of Kurt’s shirt where it is bunched.  “When are you going to realize,” he says, “that I don’t care what you say you want?”

 

Kurt feels the blunt tip of Karofsky’s dick as it presses up against him, feels as the larger boy uses a hand to guide himself into place.  And then it’s pressure; hard, steady pressure that burns and aches and is just so _wrong_.

 

Cries of pain, half bitten off as Kurt tries to muffle them, are escaping his throat, pulled out involuntarily as the hard cock presses into him.  His body is taunt, all of his muscles tensed to the point that his toes are curled and his back is arched, trying to stop the pain.  To get away from Karofsky.

 

“Shit,” Karofsky gasps, and then thrusts forward, pressing himself inside of Kurt in one powerful movement. 

 

Kurt gasps, and then gags at the pain.  It’s intense, horrible and vile, not sharp like breaking a bone, but throbbing, burning and all-encompassing.  It thrums through his whole body, and God, he just wants it to stop.

 

The boy behind him is grunting harshly, breath grazing over Kurt’s shoulders and neck, as he pushes forward and pulls back at a fast pace.  Kurt can do nothing but take it, pinned down and exhausted, in pain and head spinning.  He feels like he might throw up.

 

Karofsky sets a fast pace, thrusting hard in and out of Kurt’s body, and Kurt feels the rough brick of the wall against his chest leaving scratch marks and bruises as he is pushed up against it again and again.  He’s muttering a mantra of “no, no, no, no” as he is rocked, violated. 

 

At a particularly harsh thrust, Kurt yells out, “Stop!” Karofsky just groans and does it again, eliciting cry after cry. 

 

Kurt doesn’t know how long it goes on for, but the tears are coming steady, and he’s breathing in jagged sobs of air, begging the boy behind him to stop.

 

When Karofsky’s hands come to rest on his hips, fingers digging into the dips of his pelvic bones, Kurt winces and tries to ride it out.  The big hands are clenching so tight that Kurt feels like they will cut into him, and they are starting to pull Kurt’s body back into the thrusts, filling the room with the sound of slapping flesh. 

 

The smell of sweat, of Karofsky, is almost suffocating him, and Kurt wishes that he could shut down his mind, just go away.  But everything is clear, from the hands on his hips to the little details about the room, such as the cracked tile five over and three up in the shower stall, and it’s like his brain is capturing the entire event in exacting detail. 

 

Karofsky’s movements speed up, and he is panting and groaning, using Kurt’s body roughly. 

 

Kurt doesn’t know when his cries had tapered off, but all he can hear is the sound of Karofsky’s movements, of Karofsky’s pleasure. 

 

Clenching his teeth tightly together and squeezing his eyes shut, Kurt’s mouth pulls back in a pained grimace – Karofsky has picked up speed even more, slamming into him fast and with no rhythm.  This goes on for twenty, thirty thrusts, and then Karofsky grunts and moves in close, moulding his body to Kurt’s back.  With one final push, the large teen sinks his teeth into Kurt’s neck, clenching as he climaxes. 

 

Kurt’s feet slide, unbalanced, as he is shoved so his legs and chest lay flush with the wall, the hands falling from his hips to run up and down his thighs. Karofsky has stilled, leaning his weight into Kurt’s back and pressing the air from his lungs with his weight.  Kurt’s head is still ringing from the strikes and tears have streaked down his face.  He can feel them in the dip of his collarbones and down the centre of his chest. 

 

“If you tell anyone about this – even that little prep-school bitch – I’ll kill you.  I’ll find you wherever you go and slit your fucking throat.  And don’t think I’ll leave your family alone, either,” Karofsky says, running a finger over the side of Kurt’s face as he leans away, fingers grazing the bite marks he’s left. “You won’t need to wait for another heart attack to plan your daddy’s funeral.”

 

Kurt sobs, voice hoarse and choked.

 

“And besides,” whispers the other boy, a hand trailing down Kurt’s shuddering chest to pinch at abused nipples, “no one will believe you. You’re nothing more than a little slut. You practically begged for it.”

 

Kurt’s shaking his head, denial and revulsion washing through him like waves.  “No. No, you’re wrong.”

 

“I’m not,” says Karofsky, pulling back and out of Kurt’s body.

 

Kurt lets out a cry at the feeling of Karofsky slipping from his tender hole, the muscles clenching in pain. The heavy weight that has kept him pinned is removed and Kurt’s legs give out, causing him to slam into the ground, hands caught beneath his body.

 

“You walk around in your fancy clothes, in _skirts_.  You’ve been begging for this all along, for someone to bend you over and fuck you good.”  Karofsky pulls up his boxers and then his jeans, zipping them up while he looks down at Kurt with a little smirk on his lips. 

 

Shirt and jacket in place, fully clothed, Karofsky kneels down next to Kurt, and reaches a hand out, which Kurt flinches away from, grabbing the injured boy’s bound wrists.  As he unties the knots, not careful in the least not to jerk the bruised appendages, Karofsky leers at Kurt.  “Such a good little slut.”

 

When he’s done and thrown the tie off to the side, Karofsky stands, saying, “Just remember, fag; you tell anyone, and you’ll regret it.”

 

Kurt shivers as Karofsky runs his eyes once more over his body, lingering as he gets lower, and then turns and walks away.  As he reaches the door, Karofsky turns and says, “See you tomorrow, Hummel.” And then he’s gone.

 

Kurt is sobbing in near silence as he lies on the floor.  There are so many points of pain on his body that he doesn’t know which is the worst.

 

He feels dirty.

 

There have been times in Kurt’s life when he’s done something, like lied to his dad, and felt wrong after.  He felt that way when he had kissed Brittany, felt like something wasn’t right, like he was doused in guilt.  In shame. 

 

This is so much worse.  The fear and the pain are auxiliary to this feeling; it crawls under his skin and makes his stomach writhe.  It is disgust and shame and some unknown itch combined, coating him inside and out.

 

Trembling, Kurt shifts stiffly and moans in pain as he pulls his arms around his middle, hugging as tight as he can.  He tries to ignore the pain, just focusing on holding himself. It doesn’t work.

 

He doesn’t know how long it is before he shifts, before he can move without falling back down, but when he does it is in jerky, uncoordinated actions.

 

His shirt is still on, pulled halfway down but caught on his arms, which are so sore he can hardly lift his torso from the ground. 

 

It takes more effort than it should to shrug his shirt back on, and his fingers tremble madly, making it nearly impossible to button it back up.  When he finishes, he looks at the tie laying a few feet away, and immediately knows he’ll never wear it again.

 

His pants are by his feet where they were discarded, and he gets his feet beneath himself slowly, using the wall beside him to brace against.  He pulls back like he’s been stung, though, when he realizes exactly what his hand is touching; what had just happened right up against that wall.

 

His pants are easier to get on then his shirt, and Kurt is in a haze as he finishes dressing and collects his bag, which he had lost when he’d first been propelled into the room. 

 

The walk to his car, getting in and starting the engine, driving home; all of these things are a giant blur.  He can’t remember any specific details and the thought that maybe he shouldn’t have driven goes through his mind, but is quickly laid aside.  The next thing he knows he’s turning onto his street and approaching his house.

 

When Kurt reaches his house he parks, shuts off the engine, and then sits with his seat belt still on.  His eyes are burning and his body is a mass of pain, but he feels numb. Disconnected.  And yet his body is singing with tension, his stomach is roiling, and he can’t stop the tears. But, inside, in a way that transcends the physical, he feels nothing. 

 

He knows, on some surface level, that he’s probably in shock.  His body is hurting, and he’s exhausted, and he just wants to crawl into bed and never wake up again. But first he needs to shower. He needs to be clean.

 

The journey up to the door takes longer than it should, and Kurt’s fingers stumble and quake as he tries to fit his key into the lock of the door. 

 

It is still early evening, and the house is empty and dark.  Kurt doesn’t know if he wants to be relieved that his father isn’t home; in some way, one that is buried underneath the rest of his thoughts, he wants his dad to find him.  He wants his father to grab him in his arms and hold him tight; he wants his dad to fix this.

 

When he gets to his room, Kurt shuts the door behind him, turning the lock and checking to make sure it’s in place. 

 

He wanders across the room to his bed, where he flicks on a single lamp and just stands for a minute, feeling fine tremors shake him from head to toe, feeling the throbbing ache of many, many injuries. 

 

Coming back to himself, Kurt closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, and then reaches to undo the buttons of his shirt.  Once he starts undressing, however, his fingers move swiftly, urgently, pulling the material from his body.  He reaches his bathroom and steps inside, flicking on the light and squinting into the brightness as he bends over to pull off his pants and boxers, which causes a flair of pain to erupt in his lower back. 

 

Once he’s fully undressed, he turns the shower on, leaving the hot water tap fully open, only adding enough cold to the stream so that it’s bearable. Just barely.

 

Over the next twenty minutes Kurt goes through the motions, washing his hair, once, twice, three times, scrubbing his body over and over again.  He needs to get every crevasse, every place that could be dirty. He eventually drops the soap to the shower floor and just crumples downward, propping his back against the shower stall and curling his legs to his chest.

 

Sitting in the bottom of his shower with scalding hot water raining down on him, Kurt watches the water as it runs to the drain.  Whenever he shifts slightly, feeling the burning aches of pain flair to life, he expects to see a streak of pink water join the clear torrent. But he doesn’t.  He’s hurt, bruised, he feels disgusting and sick, but he’s not bleeding.

 

He knows that he should call his dad, get him to drive him to the hospital. But he can’t.

 

Every time he even considers telling someone he wants to scramble for his phone, hear his dad’s voice.  But then the threats will echo in his mind, and it is almost as if Karofsky is in the room with him. And then his heart starts racing, and he can feel his throat constrict, his chest tighten.  The tears will start bleeding from his eyes even faster.  So he can’t; he can’t tell his dad.  He can’t tell anyone.

 

~

 

It’s been a week.  It feels like the days are crawling by, like he’s swimming in a thick fog and nothing is clear or bright. 

 

He’s out with Blaine at the Lima Bean, something that they have done many times before.  Every other time before this he’s had fun, chatted about things that interest him or Blaine, things that he enjoys.  But now nothing is interesting, nothing is compelling.

 

Blaine has been looking at him in concern since they’d arrived, eyes wide and unassuming, but worried.  When Kurt had cancelled their coffee date the week before – there was no way Kurt could have gotten through seeing Blaine that soon after – he’d taken the news with aplomb.  But he’d immediately tried to set a new time, and Kurt just kept putting it off.  Until he felt he could see his friend and not spill everything.

 

When Blaine sends him looks, or words his messages carefully, puts a soft tinge to his voice, Kurt wants to cringe and explain.  Give his friend something to go off of to reassure him that he’s not avoiding him.  But he has been avoiding him; just not because of any fault of Blaine’s, not at all.

 

He is trying so hard to keep the smile on his face, but he knows it’s not reaching his eyes and it fails every time Blaine looks away.  He wants so badly for everything to go back to how it was.  How it was before – well.  Before what happened.

 

“Hey, are you okay, Kurt? You seem quiet.” Blaine is looking at him intently, a slight frown on his lips. “Are things going alright at school?”

 

Kurt takes a drink of coffee, feels the newly familiar panic flaring in his chest. “Yeah. I mean, nothing worse than normal,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “Just have a big assignment coming up soon; it’s worth a lot of marks.”

 

Blaine nods sympathetically. “Oh I know how that is.  Dalton might be a great place to attend, but the curriculum is killer.”

 

Nodding, glad that Blaine has taken the bait, Kurt puts his coffee down when he feels his hands start to shake noticeably.  The tightness in his chest hasn’t relaxed, and he can feel his hands growing cold and numb.  He is suddenly feeling queasy and his thoughts are much less calm.

 

“Will you,” he starts, cutting off abruptly before trying again. “Will you excuse me?”

 

Blaine knots his brows together and nods, “Yeah, sure.  Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.  Just need to hit the boys’ room.” Standing up with much more grace than he thought was possible with how hard he’s shaking, Kurt pivots and heads for the bathroom.

 

When he gets through the door, he braces his hands on the edge of a sink, head hanging low, and tries to control his breathing.  It takes a few minutes, but he eventually feels the tension start to seep from his muscles, feels the warmth creep back into his hands. 

 

Looking up at his reflection, Kurt can see where the concealer he’d applied earlier in the day has started to fade, giving him glimpses of heavy black circles under his eyes.  The purple bruise on his cheek has faired better, and has remained mostly hidden. 

 

Pulling his shoulder bag open, Kurt grabs the tube of concealer and carefully, quickly and expertly, reapplies a small amount.  When he’s blended it to his satisfaction, sure that Blaine won’t be able to see through it, he puts the makeup away. 

 

Before he turns back to leave, he tilts his head to the side and slides his fingers under the thick scarf he’s wrapped around his neck, gently playing a whispering touch across the scabs left from Karofsky’s harsh bite. 

 

It’s a constant reminder, and he wishes that it would fade as easily as the bruises.  But it won’t; he knows his skin, how sensitive it is, and this will undoubtedly scar.  This will be with him forever, no matter how much it fades.

 

Readjusting the scarf with quick precision, Kurt leaves the bathroom as someone else enters, and goes back to sit with Blaine.

 

“Hey,” his friend greets, “I got you a refill.”

 

Glancing down at the hot coffee in front of him, Kurt lets out the most genuine smile that has graced in face since – well, since then.  “Thank you.”

 

“My pleasure.” Blaine smiles and takes a sip of his own coffee.

 

~

 

When Kurt gets home from coffee with Blaine, he goes down to his room and strips off his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them in his hamper.  He pulls on his fluffy white robe quickly, only allowing his skin to be exposed to the air for a few seconds. 

 

He then goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower, twisting the knobs so that the water is steaming, almost hot enough to burn.  He never used to keep it this hot; it would do damage to his skin, which he did not want.  But now he needs the heat, needs to feel it peeling at his skin, washing away at his upper layers.

 

When he’s done, skin pink from the heat and from the vigorous scrubbing he had cleaned himself with, he dries quickly, efficiently.  Wrapping the towel around his head, he then walks past the mirror, avoiding his reflection, to pluck his robe from its hanger, pulling the thick material over his body quickly. 

 

He doesn’t need to see the hand-shaped bruises on his hips, or the bite marks on his neck and shoulders, to know they’re there. 

 

He can hardly forget it.

 

~

 

Kurt is curled on the couch, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other pillowing his head on the armrest.  He has a light blanket draped over his legs, but his feet are sticking out and getting kind of cold; he’s so comfortable, though, that he doesn’t move to cover them.

 

His father is sitting next to him, eyes on the TV screen and hat perched on his head.  Burt has been doing much better lately, and Kurt knows that he’s been seeing a lot of Carole. He doesn’t know exactly where their relationship is going, but he suspects that his dad isn’t going to wait around for much longer.  The heart attack scared him.  It scared them both.

 

Kurt jumps when a weight suddenly settles on his exposed feet, and he looks up to see his dad eyeing him with concern.  “Are you doing okay, Kurt? I know you don’t always talk about the stuff that happens at school, but lately, Buddy, you’ve been acting different,” his dad says, giving his feet a quick squeeze before covering them with the tail-end of the blanket. 

 

His heart starts to beat fast and anxiety swarms its way into his chest. “There’s. It’s nothing, dad,” he says.

 

Burt gives him a soft but stern look.  “I may not know exactly what goes on, Kurt, but I see how it affects you. Whatever has happened, you know you can talk to me, right?”

 

He loves his dad so much, and these little moments when he realizes how lucky he is show him how much his dad loves him, too. 

 

In this moment, with his dad’s eyes boring into him and nearly choking him in kindness, he wants to tell him.  Wants to crawl into his dad’s arms and hug him tight and be held in return.  He wants to sob into the soft flannel of his dad’s shirt and tell him everything.  Tell him how sorry he is that he let this happen to him, tell him how much he’s hurting right now.

 

But he can’t.

 

The man who means the most out of anyone in his life, the man who raised him and accepts him for who he is, the man who loves him no matter what – he doesn’t deserve this.  He doesn’t deserve to know that his son has been hurt like this.

 

Polluted like this. 

 

As much as Kurt would like to spill his heart and soul into his father’s lap, as much as he wants to be held tight and told everything will be okay, he knows he can’t do it. 

 

This is his weight to bear; it’s his shame to hide and to bury deep. 

 

Kurt feels the tension and worry start to settle as he makes his decision.  He looks into his dad’s eyes, feeling the worry wash over him and through him, leaving in its path a trail of guilt. “I’m fine, dad.”

 

He turns away, breaks the connection, and thinks that he’s anything but fine.

 

~

 

Kurt’s eyes open when he wakes in the morning, the sound of his alarm ringing in his ears.  As he reaches over the edge of his bed and stops the noise, he pulls his arm back under the covers.  He’s warm and languid, and he knows that when he gets out from under the covers and is exposed to the cool air of his room he will lose this feeling.

 

 

The thought, even as abstract and oblique as it is, fills Kurt with a deluge of fear, and he starts to tense and breath heavier. 

 

As he feels the anxiety start to take over, Kurt tries to slow his breathing and directs his thoughts toward something, anything, else. 

 

It doesn’t work, and Kurt wishes he could fall back asleep.  Could wipe the memories from his mind and never have to know how this feels.

 

Kurt has been using every single method he can think of to avoid Karofsky.  The other boy is still after him, and after last week, what Karofsky had done to him, he can’t stand the thought of being caught alone with him.  He can’t go through it, not again.

 

Mornings are the worst now, and Kurt can barely force himself to get up and go to school.  Leaving the house, leaving the sanctuary of his room, his bed, is terrifying.  He no longer looks forward to seeing his friends, to going to Glee; he’s too busy being afraid.

 

There are many times he has had to pull over on the way, hands frozen and shaking on the wheel of his vehicle.  He will lean his head forward and just breathe, listen to some music, try to calm himself down enough to continue on.  To convince himself that he can do this, he can get through this.

 

But school has become like the inside of a horror house, and around every corner Kurt is expecting him to be there.  To grab him and hurt him again.

 

Every loud slam of lockers, every time he walks past the boys’ locker room, he flinches.  And it isn’t getting any better; it’s getting worse.  He can almost feel Karofsky’s eyes on him as he darts between classes, keeping as close to his friends as he can. 

 

Sometimes, when he’s walking through the halls, or even lying in bed at night, he can feel the bigger boy’s hands on him.  Can feel the hot breath ghosting over his neck.

 

The moments when he loses himself in the past are starting to wear on Kurt, and he wishes that he could bury the memories deep and never see them, or feel them, again.  He’s trying so hard to forget that, sometimes, he thinks that he’s just carving them deeper into his mind.

 

~

 

When his dad and Carole announce that they’re getting married, Kurt finds the perfect distraction.  He can work on this, on his colours and his textures, on the perfect wedding, and he doesn’t have time to think about large hands holding him down.  He doesn’t have the time to feel the anxiety creeping through him at every turn.

 

He barely even has time to eat or do homework.  But it doesn’t matter, not when he’s found something that can keep his mind and his body busy.

 

He thinks he’s doing a good job of pretending everything is okay, putting on a mask for the world to see while he screams inside.  If he catches his dad staring at him when he’s not looking, or if Mercedes starts talking to him more than she has in months, he knows they suspect something has happened, but he tries to ignore it.  He relies on the belief that they will never find out the truth. 

 

Class is about to start, and Kurt is gripping the strap of his messenger bag tightly enough that his knuckles are white, keeping close to the lockers as though they could shield him from the world.  But he keeps his head held high, his strides long and smooth. 

 

The majority of his injuries are healing well, and the limp he’s been covering isn’t even discernable anymore.  He wears scarves or turtlenecks everyday, making sure they don’t slip down and expose the bruises and bites littered on his neck. He’s gone out and bought four new pairs of gloves that are long enough to cover his wrists and wears long sleeves for extra protection. 

 

He tries not to think of how sometimes, when he’s sitting in a room full of his friends, people who care about him, he wishes his shirt would ride up, or his scarf would fall away.  So that they could see – see how much he needs them, but without telling them.  Because he’s scared, and he’s ashamed, but he still wants someone to hold him.  He wants someone to lean on, someone who will soothe his pain and misery with gentle shushes and warmth.

 

He wants his mom.

 

~

 

Leaving McKinley happens so fast that Kurt doesn’t have the chance to feel much more than a strand of disappointment for leaving his friends, which is quickly awash in the flood of relief that comes soon after.  He won’t have to see Karofsky every day, won’t have to hunch his shoulders in fear, expecting the next attack at any moment.

 

When Karofsky had approached him at his locker, when he’d crowded in close like he had, it had made Kurt feel a thrill of fear so deep that he couldn’t move.  When Karofsky put the finger to his chest, dragged it down, he stopped breathing and his body thrummed from the wrongness.

 

He couldn’t take it anymore. The fear, the stress, it was all become too much to handle.

 

He knows that he could have had Karofsky expelled -- hell, he probably could have had the other boy _arrested_ with the perfect imprint of his teeth in Kurt’s flesh – but he couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t risk Karofsky retaliating; he certainly couldn’t look into his father’s eyes and tell him what had happened to his son.

 

The reaction his dad had had to Karofsky’s taunt, to the revealed death threat, was bad enough.  He can’t imagine what would happen if his dad ever found out about the other kind of assault that Kurt had suffered.

 

So Kurt keeps quiet and takes the escape that his dad and Carole present; the chance to get away from all of this. From Karofsky.  And, hopefully, to somewhere that he will be, if not happy, able to live without paralysing fear.

 

~

 

Kurt arrives at Dalton with his life packed into two large suitcases and exhaustion written across his features.  He supposes that there might be some hope mixed in there, too, but when he tries to think positive, it’s like the thoughts are just sapped away.

 

The administration is happy to place him quickly; they’ve heard of his situation, and they are more than willing to help.  The lady behind the reception desk in the head office even hands him a thick packet of scholarship applications.  Kurt takes them in his hands almost reverently.

 

“Thank you,” he says softly, giving her a grateful smile.

 

She beams at him, her wrinkled face alight in kindness.  It almost breaks him to see it.

 

After they’ve been thoroughly introduced to Dalton life by the Dean, Kurt and his father are lead to the room where he will live. 

 

There are two single beds on opposite ends of the room made of a dark wood, matching bedside tables and dressers flank them, and there is also a desk for each of the occupants. 

 

 

“We don’t usually have many mid-year transfers to Dalton,” the greying man says, gesturing them into the room with a sweep of his arm. “It was felt that, for the sake of all the students’ comfort, you were to have your own room.”

 

At the wording Burt visibly prickles, and Kurt steps closer to his dad, putting a hand to his shoulder.

 

The Dean, who had spoke absently, notices the other man’s reactions and his eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, no, Mr. Hummel.  We absolutely do not discriminate against our students for who they are.  I just meant that the boys who have been here since September or from previous years are settled into their routines already.  We didn’t want to disrupt that.”

 

Burt nods, and Kurt lets his hand drop away, back to his side. “That makes sense,” Burt acknowledges. 

 

The rest of the tour goes smoothly, and soon Kurt is left alone in his room, suitcases at his feet and staring at empty walls and a darkening pane of glass.

 

The window affords him a view of the courtyard below, where the fresh snow is dotted with the footprints of students in a hurry.  Stretching above the ground are the bare limbs of trees, reaching their spindly branches for a sky that is forever unreachable.  The shadows they cast stretch, distorted, over the planes of the snow like scars.

 

It’s kind of appropriate, Kurt thinks, as he turns away.  Because by tomorrow morning those scars will have changed, moving with the light of the sun, but they will never leave.  They will morph into new forms, stronger and bigger, faded and slight, but they are always there. 

 

Until someone comes along and cuts the tree down.  That’d do the job.

 

No one comes to visit him on his first night, and Kurt looks at his phone, which he has turned to silent, and wonders if he should have called Blaine and told him that he was here.  That he had run away from McKinley because he just couldn’t take it. 

 

But he doesn’t – instead he curls under his covers and stares at the ceiling for a long time, and waits for sleep to take him.  Whether the darkness would bring sweet pleasantness or night terrors is something that Kurt doesn’t know. More often than not it is whimpers and tears and a body trembling in fear.

 

He falls into the depth of sleep without being able to tell when it happens – one minute he is memorizing the feel of a new mattress and the trajectory of the single crack in the ceiling, and the next he is running through the halls of McKinley. 

 

His chest is heaving from exertion, and his hands are trapped, tied by the wrists.  He can hear Karofsky coming up from behind, footfalls heavy and steady. 

 

Kurt turns to look behind, trying to judge how much of an advance he has on Karofsky, but there is no one behind him.  Confusion creeps in to join with fear in his mind.

 

As he turns back to look where he is going, he collides with a solid wall.  When he starts to fall backward, clenching his eyes in preparation for impact, arms wrap around his waist, holding his steady. 

 

It’s Karofsky.

 

Kurt jerks awake, yelling, “No!” 

 

The room is silent and empty around him as he shakes, sobbing into the night.

 

~

He’s in Warblers practice when it happens. 

 

They’ve been rehearsing a number that involves a lot of dancing, and the guys have been going all out this time.  Blaine is jumping up on the furniture, a habit that Kurt has found more charming than annoying, and the others are throwing around whatever type of dance moves they can do.  Kurt is secretly impressed by Nick’s pirouettes. 

 

So when Nick sits down next to him when they finish, panting and just slightly damp, Kurt doesn’t think anything of looking over and smiling. 

 

And then it hits him.  The smell – it’s Karofsky.  There are hands holding too tight, pain radiating from his face and body, the smell – oh, the _smell_ \-- that is engulfing his senses and seeping into him.  Sweat and soap; every time he takes a breath it enters him, filling his mouth with filth.

 

Suddenly he isn't in surrounded by uniform jackets and vests; he's pinned face-first against the wall of the boy's locker room, hands tied securely in front of him, and there are hands on him. A mouth is lapping at his neck.

 

Pain radiates from where he is being violated.

  
Chest so tight he can't breathe, fear filling his mouth, everywhere, Kurt can't even scream. He's frozen, terrified, and oh, God, he just wants it to end. 

  
He doesn't know how long it goes on for; he doesn't know anything but the horror and agony and humiliation.

  
The smell seems to pervade everything; it fills his sinuses, chokes down his throat and swirls in his lungs like a ravaging fire. As it makes its way through, into him, it digs cruel fingers into his stomach, leaving him churning, dizzy and sick.

 

Bile is suddenly in his mouth as he gags.  Bringing one hand up to cover his mouth, attempting to stop the stream of throw up from pouring down his front, Kurt is brought back to the present in time to make a mad dash to the door.

 

He can hear Blaine calling his name as he retreats down the hall to the nearby bathroom, but doesn’t dare look back. 

 

As disgusting as it is, Kurt kneels down over a toilet, the furthest from the door, and loosens his hand, gagging long and hard, over and over, until nothing more will come up.  His mouth tastes sour, and the smell of his sick is everywhere. 

 

When the heaves finally end, Kurt is left gasping for breath and coughing over the porcelain toilet bowl.  When he closes his eyes, he can feel the tears gathered there as cool prickles on his hot face.  The floor is cold and hard on his knees, and he resolutely does not think about where he is, what he is positioned over.

 

The roiling of his stomach finally easing, and the pants coming lighter and further apart, Kurt opens his eyes, intent on gathering some toilet paper to wipe his mouth with. 

 

“Here.”

 

A hand is holding a damp paper towel in offering, and Kurt can’t help the slight flinch its sudden appearance elicits.  One glance up and he can see Blaine’s eyes staring down at him, filled with concern in a way that has now become familiar.

 

Taking the offered paper towel, Kurt mumbles, “Thanks.”

 

“Are you feeling okay?” Blaine asks, reaching over Kurt’s hunched form to flush the toilet. 

 

Kurt blushes, realizing that Blaine has just had a front-row view, and smell, of his puke.  “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I must have eaten something bad.”

 

Blaine looks sceptical, but doesn’t protest. “Well, it’s probably best if you get some rest. And liquids.”

 

Nodding in assent, Kurt smiles in thanks at Blaine, who has taken hold of his elbow to help him up. “That would be a good idea.”

 

“I’ll walk you to your room.”

 

Blaine leads him out of the bathroom and through the halls, and all the while Kurt studiously ignores the feeling of being watched.

 

~

 

Not long after the incident during Warbler practice, Kurt walks into the cafeteria to find pandemonium. Of Dalton quality. Which basically means that there is a steady excited murmur instead of screaming. And no physical violence. 

 

Approaching the table that most of the Warblers share during meals and taking an empty seat next to Blaine, Kurt leans over and asks, “What’s going on? Did someone die?”

 

Blaine gives him a look that says ‘what?’ and shakes his head. “No. No one is dead.” Blaine pauses as if trying to reconcile Kurt’s question with real life. “Some of the water pipes in the dorms exploded this morning – about ten of the rooms are uninhabitable.”

 

Blaine motions with his chin to where Wes and David are sitting, backpacks in their laps and a tightness to their expressions.

 

“Wes and David are some of the unlucky ones who have to sleep elsewhere until the mess gets cleaned up.”

 

“Where are they going to put them all? Are there enough empty rooms?” Kurt asks.

 

Blaine frowns. “No.  They’ll have to start pairing up the singles when they fill what rooms are open.”  Brown eyes look at Kurt.  “Looks like you might be getting a roommate.”

 

Kurt leans back in his chair, lips pursed together and a single brow elevated. 

 

~

 

The morning that Wes wakes up to water seeping down his walls and dripping from his ceiling, he just knows it’s going to be a bad day.

 

His prediction turns out to be right, and his day continues on a similar note; he discovers that David’s room, which is a single, has also been affected.  That was his best option for temporary accommodations, and now he has to wait to hear from the administration about where he will be placed. 

 

So when he is informed, ever so politely, that he is to room with Kurt Hummel until he can have his room back, it doesn’t really surprise him.

 

~

 

Wes immediately notices the small things about Kurt Hummel; the nuances of his behaviour that are odd or just plain eyebrow-raising. 

 

Some of the actions that his temporary roommate exhibits Wes can explain away as part of being fastidious and generally worried about appearance.  But when he actually pays attention to the comings and goings of the countertenor, he realizes that the boy will shower anywhere from once to three times in a day.  He will re-apply deodorant like he has a problem with sweating too much, which Wes hasn’t seen any indication of before – no dark circles in his shirts, no sheen to his face.

 

Maybe he’s just worried about the smell, but it’s kind of ridiculous.

 

Because it isn’t his room, not really, Wes tries to spend as much time as possible away.  He’s taken to doing all of his studying in the library, and he’s gone for so many coffees lately that he is sure he will actually exhibit caffeine withdrawal symptoms when he goes back to his normal schedule. 

 

He usually gets back from his day sometime after dinner – it ranges between six and eight depending on whether he goes to the library – to go through his nightly routines before bed. 

 

He’s done exactly that tonight, and is now sitting on his bed, propped up against his head-board with a pillow behind him.  There is a textbook resting on his knees and a notebook just within reach. 

 

Kurt is sitting in front of a mirror on the other side of the room, an assortment of bottles around him.  His night-time moisturizing takes longer then it does for Wes to be showered and ready for class, but Kurt does it every day.  Wes is glad he doesn’t worry that much about his skin.

 

Silence stretches across the room for a long interval, and Wes only notices because he’s come to associate Kurt’s night-time routine with the light clanking of bottles.  But this time there is nothing. 

 

Wes glances up from his textbook, vision cut in half by the thick volume.  He can see the top of Kurt’s head, unmoving except for the slightest of quiver every once in a while. 

 

When Kurt continues to be silent and still, Wes slides his feet down the bed to lower his knees, which affords him a complete view of the other Warbler. 

 

Kurt’s face is turned toward the mirror on his dresser, but his eyes are downcast and unfocused.  Wes might have thought that the other boy was merely lost in thought, except his brow is creased toward the middle in a deep furrow, and his lips are turned down as if in disgust. 

 

He looks like he is going to be sick. 

 

Wes is about to ask if Kurt is okay, if he is still sick from the other day, when Kurt’s pale eyes raise to meet his own reflection.  Wes doesn’t have the slightest idea what he could say about the look he sees coming over Kurt’s features. 

 

It’s his eyes that are the worst. 

 

Wes has seen many emotions glaring back from those eyes; wonder, adoration, sadness.  Kurt’s eyes are so expressive, such a window into his soul, that Wes has been amazed and uneasy in turn. 

 

He never thought he’d see such disgust, such complete and utter _abhorrence_ , in them. 

 

As soon as the look has come, it is gone again.  And then Kurt is back to his routine, as though nothing had happened.

 

Wes stares for a moment, thoughts whirling.  And wonders if he has just imagined the whole exchange between Kurt and his reflection.

 

~

 

It is the last night that Wes has to spend in Kurt Hummel’s room and he’s glad that this week will be over soon.  He can’t wait to get back to his own room, to the familiarity of his own roommate who he’s known for years. 

 

Kurt isn’t a bad roommate; it is nothing like that.  It’s just that Wes doesn’t particularly like the other boy, and not for any specific reason.  Sure, Kurt’s first day in the Warblers had done nothing to endear him to Wes (although, he has to admit, he’d agreed with David that first day; Kurt’s failed attempt at spying _had_ been endearing), but he didn’t hold that against him, not really. 

 

He can’t put his finger on it, can’t quite discern what it was about Kurt Hummel that annoys him, but he isn’t all too worried about figuring it out, either. 

 

After tonight he can go back to his normal school life and forget about the conundrum that is Kurt Hummel. 

 

Closing the textbook that he has propped up against his chest, Wes places it on the bedside table and flicks off the light.  As he slides down and under the covers, he closes his tired eyes and is almost instantly asleep.

 

Wes’s eyes snap open as a noise splits the silence of his and Kurt’s room.  As his eyes focus on the ceiling in the dim light, he can hear subtle shifts of movement coming from Kurt’s side of the room, and there are quiet noises escaping the countertenor.

 

At first Wes finds his face heating in embarrassment; it sounds like Kurt is having a rather enjoyable dream.  He hopes that he won’t have to suffer through listening to that, and he doesn’t want to have to wake the other boy up.  That would be absolutely horrifying.

 

When a lull in the noise lasts for about twenty seconds, Wes lets out a little breath of relief and closes his eyes. 

 

Sleep is pulling him back under its heavy blanket of comfort when he hears Kurt make another little moan, louder and longer than before.  In fact, it’s loud enough that Wes finds it hard to believe that Hummel hadn’t woken himself up with it.

 

Wes turns to face the other bed, squinting into the dark, and tries to see if Kurt has woken up, but he can see no movement other than the rising and falling of Kurt’s chest as he sleeps. 

 

Shaking his head, Wes pulls the covers over his shoulders securely and closes his eyes, hoping that he will be able to get back to sleep without any more interruption.

 

His hopes are shattered mere seconds later as Kurt starts breathing faster in his sleep, mumbling incoherently.  Frustration and a thread of anger building in his chest, Wes pinches his lips and sits up, fists clenching at the fabric of his covers. 

 

He has a test tomorrow in History, and if he doesn’t get a good night of sleep he won’t be able to concentrate properly.  If he can’t concentrate on what he is doing, he’s going to miss little details, he’s going to do something wrong.  And his 3.9 GPA will not tolerate any sort of mediocre mark.

 

Rising to his feet and fully intending to wake Kurt up with as little compunction at all, Wes is faced with a different situation than he had thought. 

 

The noises coming from Kurt’s lips are not ones of joy or pleasure; they are, rather, moans filled with unmistakable pain.  Now that he is standing, Wes can see Kurt’s face, which is a picture of everything wretched.

 

Wes watches as Kurt shakes his head side to side, the hair splayed across his pillow sticking to the tears on his cheeks.  His lips are trembling, pulled back and down as though he is in agony. 

 

Wes is frozen as he stands above Kurt’s bed, watching as the boy sobs in his sleep, thrashing against an invisible hold.

 

“No. No, please.” Kurt’s mumbles are becoming louder, more clear, and Wes feels shock and horror bloom in his chest. “Stop. Don’t touch me – please, please stop.”

 

The dark-haired boy doesn’t know what to do.  This is something so out of his league that for a moment his eyes wander to his phone.  If he calls Blaine, the boy could be here in less than five minutes.  And he’s actually close friends with Kurt, unlike Wes.

 

The sobs are coming faster now, building up to intersperse every other word as Kurt keeps up a steady stream of “no, no, no… stop – no!”

 

Wes lasts less than ten seconds contemplating calling Blaine, and before he can waste more time thinking this through, he bends over and, very gently, shakes Kurt’s shoulder.

 

Kurt flinches away from his hand, yelling, “Please, no!”

 

Wes jumps back, heart pounding.  Kurt’s sobs are starting to boarder on hysterical and he has curled on his side tightly, legs tucked in close and arms wrapped around his torso.  Like he’s trying to make himself very small. Like he’s trying to hold something in.  Or keep something out.

 

As Kurt cries out with a heart-wrenching, “Please stop.  Don’t touch me.” Wes amends ‘something’ with ‘ _someone_ ’.

 

Approaching the bed again, Wes doesn’t try to shake Kurt awake, instead whispering, “Kurt. Kurt – wake up.”

 

The shuddering, shivering boy doesn’t react to him, continuing to sob. 

 

“Kurt,” he says, louder. “You are dreaming. Kurt.”

 

It doesn’t work.

 

Frustration starting to build in him again, Wes sighs resolutely and makes a decision.

 

Leaning over Kurt, bracing himself mentally and physically, Wes uses both hands to grasp Kurt’s upper arms just above the elbow.  As he gets a hold, he demands, “Wake up!” His tone is sharp, something that he usually reserves for his duties as Warbler council member. 

 

“Let go, Karofsky!”

 

Kurt’s voice is loud in Wes’s ears as he sees the pale boy’s eyes snap open. Wes releases his hold and pulls away as Kurt rips his arms away, scrambling backward in a mass of twisted covers and flailing limbs.  He hits the wall at the other end of the bed with a solid ‘thud’ that makes Wes wince in sympathy.

 

Kurt, now awake, is breathing in uneven gasps, pulling every gulp of air in faster.  As this intensifies, Wes can hear wheezing with every intake as Kurt’s throat tightens.

 

Wes knows what this is, has experienced it several times himself. Reacting on instinct more than anything, he moves forward slowly until his knees hit the edge of the mattress.  He keeps a close eye on Kurt as he crawls on to the bed, moving toward the shuddering, hyperventilating boy. 

 

“Kurt? I’m not going to hurt you, okay?”

 

Wes waits until he gets acknowledgement, in the form of a slight nod of Kurt’s head, before putting a hand to Kurt’s back.  Rubbing his thumb gently against the material of Kurt’s pyjama top, he sits himself so that he is beside Kurt.

 

Aware of the hitching of Kurt’s back beneath his hand, Wes says in a soft tone, “You need to calm down.  I know it’s hard, and it feels like the world in collapsing all around you.  Just focusing on your breathing, okay?”

 

Kurt looks up at him, and Wes is struck by the way his eyes bore into him.  Lashes clumped from tears, and the moonlight from the window illuminating the vast and changeable colour, Kurt looks unearthly.  And completely devastated.

 

Swallowing thickly, the Warbler says, “You know the feeling you get when you’re completely relaxed? How your feet and hands are warm, how you could practically melt into the ground? Try to imagine that feeling creeping up from your feet slowly.”

 

Shifting so that he can use his other hand to rub softly at Kurt’s shoulder, Wes is glad to note that Kurt is starting to calm.

 

  

  1. Take deep breathes, ones that you can feel in your stomach, and push the tension out with them.”   
  



 

Kurt struggles to slow his breathing, nodding as Wes keeps up a soothing monologue of directions to relax.

 

“Okay. Okay,” Kurt says as his breathing calms enough that he isn’t hitching up and down with the movements of his chest.  “I’m okay.”

 

Wes realizes that his hands have kept up a steady massage across Kurt’s back, and suddenly feels awkward.  He gives one last pat and pulls them away, shifting a few inches away from Kurt as he does so.

 

“Do you feel better?” Wes asks.

 

“Yeah,” Kurt whispers, glancing quickly up and into Wes’s eyes and away again. “I’m good.  Thank you.” He looks embarrassed.

 

Wes licks his lips and nods.  “No problem.”

 

Climbing back out of the bed, satisfied that Kurt won’t be left on his own to deal with an anxiety attack, Wes starts back across the room to his own bed.  His hands are shaking, and he feels discomforted at the thought of Kurt’s pain.

 

As he grabs his blanket and sheet, pulling them up to get back in bed, Wes looks back at Kurt.  And freezes. 

Shoulders hunched inward and looking lost and alone, Kurt is biting his lips, trying not to cry.  Wes can’t just leave him like this; he can’t just go back to sleep and ignore that Kurt is sitting just feet away looking and feeling like that.

 

Wes looks at Kurt, and the wet trails that have made their way down his cheeks are such a counterpoint to his usual essence of composure. Feeling something clench in his chest, sympathy and compassion he supposes, Wes says, “Is there anything I can do?”

 

“Will you – will you just sit here?” Kurt’s voice is quiet, lacking the usual oomph that Wes ascribes to it.

 

Only hesitating for a moment, Wes walks slowly to the edge of the bed and climbs up, propping his back against the headboard and stretches his legs out.  He’s uncomfortable, and unsure of what to do.

 

Kurt doesn’t move from where he’s curled, keeping the distance between them.  Wes thinks he should feel much more awkward than he does, but something about the situation won’t allow it.

 

After a few minutes where Wes can hear Kurt’s breathing slowly even out to something resembling normal, Kurt shifts, pulling himself up to sit alongside Wes.  The bed is small enough that less than an inch separates their shoulders.

 

“Do you,” Kurt starts, but stops, licking his lips with apprehension written across his face. “Do you know why I transferred to Dalton?”

 

Wes watches Kurt’s face from the corner of his eyes, using peripheral vision. “Not really.  Blaine mentioned that you had some – altercations – with a classmate.  But nothing more.”

 

Kurt nods, staring straight ahead. “It wasn’t – it was more than just bullying.”

 

Kurt’s face is starting to turn red and Wes can hear as Kurt’s breathing picks up again. Wanting to prevent another bout of anxiety, Wes turns to Kurt and, watching for any kind of reaction, puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder.

 

“You don’t have to talk about it. If you don’t want to, that is.” Wes doesn’t want to discourage Kurt, but he doesn’t want the other boy to think he has to say anything.  “But, I mean, if you want to tell me about it – that would be fine.” Wes cringes internally at his wording. 

 

Kurt’s hands are clasped together, fingers digging into his own palms like he can massage the tension from his body in that way.

 

“I never told anyone what happened,” Kurt whispers.

 

Based on what Kurt had said in the grasps of his nightmare, Wes has a pretty good idea of what is coming.  It doesn’t make it any easier to hear, though.

 

“There was this bully, at McKinley. He’s always picked on me more than anyone else.  I had assumed that it was because he was just a homophobic Neanderthal.” Kurt laughs, low and distinctly unhappy.  The sound rumbles through Wes like a mass of crawling ants.  “He kissed me.”

 

Silence reigns for a minute, and Wes can see fresh tears creeping down Kurt’s cheeks, dripping from his chin to soak his top.  When Kurt suddenly jolts forward, a sob breaking through his lips, Wes wraps one arm around Kurt’s back, pulling him to rest against his side. 

 

“He- he,” Kurt stutters.  His voice is strained and high, pushing through a throat that does not want to cooperate. “He did other things, too.”

 

Wes actually feels the confession like a needle to his heart; he heard what Kurt was saying in his sleep.  He had a good idea of what might have happened. 

 

But the words, even if they are not exact or a precise retelling, they make it all the more tangible. Because before it could have been an allusion, a maybe.  Now it was there, like a heavy weight settling in him, and Wes can’t pretend that it isn’t so bad.

 

Kurt’s sobs are quiet bursts of misery against his side, the tears now soaking into Wes’s shoulder. 

 

“He – oh, God. I can’t.” Kurt’s speech is choppy, uneven and filled with an overwrought tone.

 

Wes knows what it’s like to not be able to say something.  To look someone in the face and want to spill your heart out – but you can’t.  Kurt sounds like that right now. 

 

Like he has this huge burden, this pain, inside that he wants to let out.  But can’t.

 

“It’s.” Wes won’t say that it’s okay.  Because it’s not. “You’ll be okay, Kurt.”  He’s rocking the boy back and forward, arms holding the slender form securely. 

 

Kurt continues to cry, the sound tearing into Wes over and over again.

 

Wes doesn’t have anything to say; at least, nothing that will make this better.  Nothing that wouldn’t be a false promise. 

 

So he holds the other boy tight, keeps them anchored together and is a life raft to hold Kurt up so he doesn’t drown.

 

Eventually, after a length of time that Wes can’t even fathom, the sounds from Kurt taper off and he slowly relaxes in Wes’s arms.  Not daring to move in fear of waking Kurt from the exhausted sleep he’s fallen into, Wes leans his head back and closes his eyes. 

 

~

 

The next day Wes wakes up in Kurt’s bed alone.  The other boy is gone from the room, and the spot next to him where the blankets are still messed is cold. 

 

Wes is almost startled by the sudden worry that runs through him; before last night he’d never really cared for the pale countertenor from McKinley.  But what had happened last night, what he had learned, has changed his opinion, how he sees the other boy. 

 

Kurt isn’t some pretentious fashionista running from a few homophobic slurs; he’s a boy who has an amazingly strong front, but is falling apart inside.  He’s someone who keeps his secrets tight inside.  He’s like Wes in that aspect, and it makes Wes feel close to him.

 

Wes may not know what it’s like to be violated like that, may not know exactly how to help Kurt through this, but he knows what it’s like to keep things bottled up.  And now that he knows, understands what he had thought was odd about Kurt, he knows he can’t just leave it. 

 

Slipping from the bed, Wes rubs a hand through his hair and heads out to get ready for the day. 

 

Wes goes through breakfast and first period without seeing Kurt at all, and he only gets a glimpse of the slim retreating back of the countertenor as he is entering his second period class.

 

By lunch he’s quit looking out for Kurt at every moment, and is just enjoying his chicken. 

 

It isn’t until he is walking toward his second from last class of the day that Wes runs into Kurt.  They are both in a rush, the long distance between some of the rooms enough that it is almost necessary to jog during the switch. 

 

Kurt meets his eyes, looking hesitant, but not afraid, and gestures off to the side of the hall.  They both depart from the stream of students, coming to stand face to face.

 

Kurt looks up slightly and meets his eyes.  Wes is startled by how much pain and relief is reflecting back at him, the combined emotions almost a beacon shining.  He wonders how no one had found out how badly things had gotten sooner. 

 

But then again, he’s seen the boy in Warblers practice nearly daily and never noticed.  He supposes that you might have to know what to look for to see it. 

 

Nibbling on his lip slightly, Kurt swallows hard and says, “Thank you. For helping me last night.” He’s blushing, the colour infusing his cheeks and neck brightly.

 

Wes nods. “It was no problem. Really,” he states when Kurt’s eyes turn doubtful.  Who knew how much you could read into just one feature.  “If-” he pauses, clearing his throat. “If you ever need to talk, or to, for instance, just have someone around, you can come to me.”

 

Kurt’s expression is frozen, and Wes continues, “I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, but I really won’t mind if you wanted to. At all. Any time.”

 

Kurt continues to stare at him for a moment, eyes becoming more intense, more assessing. After a brief moment, he licks his lips nervously and nods.  “Thank you, Wes.”

 

Straightening up and squaring his shoulders, Wes looks over his shoulder to where his next class is. “Well, I had better go to my class.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Kurt replies. 

 

“Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you later then.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Wes turns and starts walking away, feeling the burn of eyes on his back. As he reaches the door to his classroom, Wes turns around at the sound of Kurt’s voice calling softly across the hall.

 

“Wes?” Kurt is fidgeting slightly, eyes large and bright. “I really appreciated what you did.  It meant a lot.  Just – thanks again.”

 

Wes smiles and waves. “You’re welcome. Always.”

 

Wes continues to watch as Kurt turns around and starts to walk back to where his class is located, and only turns and enters his own class when Kurt’s back disappears around a corner.  The smile is still on his lips.

 

 Part Two: In The End

 

It is a bright, sun-filled morning outside, the light filtering through Kurt’s window to highlight a multitude of small specks of dust floating through the air. 

 

Kurt is resting on his side, one arm propped under his head as he watches the light catch on the dust over and over again.  He likes seeing the world like this; it’s almost magical to acknowledge the existence of something so innocuous, so mundane, and how in the right light it can become beautiful.

 

Kurt inhales lightly, rounding his lips to blow out a steady stream of air.  A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as the points of light dance and twirl about. They almost seem to play a game of tag, dancing and twisting this way and that.

 

Limbs heavy, but feeling light, Kurt sighs and stretches his legs out, pointing and curling his toes.  He’s been awake and laying in bed for around an hour, just appreciating the little things like the softness of his bed, the warmth of his comforter.  The secret beauty of dust.

 

He needs to get up soon and clean his face, moisturize, do his hair and get dressed, but he feels lazy.  He figures that one day of being lax about his appearance, but without totally forgoing his basics, won’t be the end of the world. 

 

When he does get up, sliding out from under the covers and sitting on the edge of his bed, Kurt can’t help but feel like everything is good.  There doesn’t seem to be a single thing in his life right now that feels wrong or bad, and he wishes this would last forever. 

 

When he’s ready to go to class, he grabs his bag and takes a cursory look around his room to see if he has forgotten anything.  He was a bit rushed, but he doesn’t feel the need to worry too hard about something little that he might not have done.

  
Seeing nothing in his sight, and having no thoughts as to what he could possibly have forgotten, Kurt leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

 

He doesn’t even realize that he’s forgotten to spend a few minutes covering the remnants of bite marks on his neck, leaving them to peak out over the collar of his shirt. 

 

When he walks to class, foregoing breakfast, Kurt slows his strides and just appreciates the play of light on the floors and walls.  The hardwood paneling of the old-style building glowing in the beams coming in from tall windows and cheerful conversation flowing about, it feels like he’s floating. 

 

Kurt skips lunch that day, too, knowing that if he tries to eat, tries to sit with the other boys and their boisterous activity, it might break through this.  He is enjoying feeling so free, feeling like there is a soft breeze against his face, reminding him of a beautiful spring day. 

 

Deciding to sit in the library, Kurt pulls a textbook from his bag and starts to read, losing himself in the lines and diagrams easily.

 

Kurt is focused on his book, legs crossed comfortably and neck bent forward over the desk, and he doesn’t notice Blaine approaching. 

 

He’s read the same line three times, distracted by the sound of a bird chirping just outside the window, when he hears the inhale of air behind him. 

 

Kurt closes his eyes and freezes in place when there is a light brush of fingers against the back of his neck, coming and going almost as if it had never happened.  He knows what is there, and he now knows exactly what he forgot to do this morning.

 

He should have known that something like this would happen, and in some way he has been expecting it.  But this doesn’t make it any easier, and it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

 

Kurt feels the light mood from earlier turn heavy, tugging him downward like an iron weight.  His mind is quickly turning to darker thoughts, extinguishing the light and soft feel of the day.  It’s like a heavy blanket settles over his head, dampening everything.

 

“Is that? Kurt, are those bite marks?” Blaine’s voice is quiet, as though he is afraid to say what he is thinking.  Afraid to know the truth.

 

When Kurt shifts in his chair to face Blaine, he sees that the other boy’s mouth is open, his thick brows high. 

 

“Blaine…”

 

Blaine shakes his head and comes in closer.  “What happened?”

 

“It’s nothing, Blaine.”

 

 “It’s not nothing, Kurt. This is much more than ‘nothing’.” Blaine pulls a chair up to sit next to Kurt, close enough that their knees brush together. 

 

Kurt turns his head away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Was it him?”

 

Kurt’s eyes dart to meet Blaine’s, and he knows that his friend is putting it together.

 

“You told me you transferred because he was throwing you into lockers, because he was harassing you.  What did he-?”

 

He doesn’t want to lie to Blaine.  He doesn’t want to hide this any longer. 

 

“It was after school a few weeks before my dad’s wedding.  I was there late, and I didn’t even hear him coming.”

 

“I’m sorry, Kurt, I’m so sorry.” Blaine looks devastated, like it was his fault and he’s standing up to take the blame.

 

It makes Kurt more angry than anything else.  “Why are you sorry? You weren’t there, you didn’t make him do – that.”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Blaine says, eyes wide. “I meant that I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

 

“I know,” Kurt sighs, “I didn’t mean to snap like that.”

 

“It’s fine,” says Blaine.

 

“It’s really not.  I’ve just been so messed up, and I haven’t really told anyone,” Kurt trails off, staring at his hands.

 

“No one else knows?”

 

“Well,” starts Kurt, “Wes knows.  When we were sharing a room he saw one of my nightmares.”

 

Blaine shifts forward, hand coming up to touch Kurt, but before he makes contact he stops. “Can I?” Blaine asks, indicating the hand that is hovering over Kurt’s shoulder uncertainly.

 

Kurt gives him a tight smile and nods. “I don’t mind, Blaine.”

 

Blaine closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Kurt.  The position is awkward, with Kurt still sitting and Blaine leaning forward in his own chair, but Kurt enjoys the contact.

 

They stay like that for some time, and then pull apart.  Kurt gives Blaine a smile, close-lipped but genuine.

 

“What are you going to do?” Blaine asks, settling back in his chair.

 

“About what?” Kurt raises a brow.

 

“About Karofsky.  You can’t just let him get away with this.”  Blaine leans forward, sincerity painting him.

 

 “I can,” Kurt says sharply. 

 

“How can you just let this go?” Blaine asks, jaw clenching and eyes narrowed.

 

“This isn’t up to you, Blaine,” Kurt says, low and tight. “This is my decision.  And I don’t want anyone knowing.  I don’t want to dredge it all up again.  Just drop it.”

 

Kurt grabs his books and bag, stands, and then turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Blaine to watch his retreating back.

 

~

 

Kurt is ignoring the multitude of texts and phone calls from Blaine when he runs into Wes.  They are both in the Warblers’ practice room, sitting on opposite sides of the same couch, and there is no one else in the room.

 

“How did you know what to do?” Kurt is looking at Wes from the side, eyes not quite meeting the other boys’. “When you helped me, you knew exactly what to do to stop it.  The fear.”

 

Wes nods, scanning Kurt’s face. “They’re anxiety attacks. I used to get them when I was a kid.”

 

Kurt looks at him curiously.

 

“I was – pressured, I suppose you could say – from an early age to do very well in my studies.  Sometimes it would just happen.” Wes takes a deep breath and looks away. “Before a test, if I had a project worth a lot.  They started happening over little things, too.”

 

“Like what?” Kurt asks.

 

“Before I got to school in the morning, when I couldn’t find the right word to use in an essay.  Little things. My parents realized what was happening, and they got me some help.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Wes smiles at Kurt. “They took me to a councillor.  She’s the one that taught me the relaxation techniques that I used.”

 

“Do they always work? How can you manage to think through all of that – it’s so overwhelming.  I just – I don’t think I could calm down enough to work through that alone.”

 

“It takes practice.  They’re something you can integrate into your everyday life. There are other options, too, such as medication.” Wes frowns at the look on Kurt’s face.

 

Kurt, noticing the look, plays a nervous beat on his leg with thin, nimble fingers. “Can you show me some? When it’s happening, when I feel like that, I’m so out of control. I don’t know what to do.  But it helped, last time, and I – I was hoping you could show me how to do it on my own.”

 

“Kurt,” Wes says carefully, “maybe you should go and see the councillor here.  He’s much more highly qualified than I am, and –”

 

“No,” Kurt says, interrupting Wes. “I can’t.”

 

Wes stares at Kurt, seeing the black circles under his eyes and the strained hold to his shoulders.

 

“Come and see me after Warbler practice tomorrow.  We’ll talk then.”

 

~

 

It’s the weekend and Kurt is at home.  It’s late at night and the house is quiet, the soft whisper of flesh on cotton the only sound.

 

There are tears dripping steadily down Kurt’s face, creating slippery paths across his cheeks as they descend.  His eyes are clenched shut and light sobs are hitching in his chest. 

 

The blanket under him feels soft, smooth, and he clenches the material in his fists.  It acts to ground him to the moment, pulling him away from thoughts of the past.

 

When Kurt opens his eyes, he stares up at the ceiling of his room, abstract patterns dancing in the corners of his eyes among the stucco. There is nothing more than some silvery moonlight and the yellow beam of a streetlight to illuminate the walls, and the darkness serves to blur the sharp edges of his vision. 

 

A slight breeze wafts across him, and Kurt shivers, naked skin alight with goosebumps. 

 

He can’t touch himself.

 

The last few months, ever since that day, he had lost interest.  It was like every teenage fantasy that had ever piqued his interest was abruptly wiped from his mind.  He could still appreciate a good-looking guy, that wasn’t the problem; it was that when he saw someone attractive, he couldn’t picture them in a less than platonic situation.

 

Whenever he tried, he just felt dirty, like he was doing something wrong. 

 

Now, lying naked on top of his bed, Kurt wishes that he could make it stop.  Make his brain just stop reminding him again and again exactly what had happened.

 

But it won’t, and he can’t get further than wrapping a hand around himself before his mind starts to playback images and sounds and feelings.  All of the things that he’s worked so hard to push away, to bury somewhere they can’t escape, just appear, playing like some old projector across the backs of his eyelids.  Across the vastness of his skin. 

 

He doesn’t know how he will ever get over this, the association.  It’s like everything that Karofsky did to him, every touch, is imprinted on his body, just waiting to be awoken. 

 

Kurt unclenches his hands from the blanket and wipes the tears from his face.  He can’t take anymore right now; he just wants to fall into the dark abyss of sleep and hope for no dreams. 

 

He pulls a pair of boxers on, not bothering to change into his nicely folded pyjamas, and buries himself in his bed.  With the thick covers around him as he curls on his side, he feels separated from the world, like there is a barrier between him and everything else. 

 

He only wishes it were made of steel, not air.

 

~

 

Kurt is coming down for dinner when he hears it. 

 

He’s been feeling low for a couple of days, and the only thing that he really wants to do is sit in his room and lay in bed.  But he doesn’t do that; he gets up in the morning and puts on a mask of himself. 

 

“It’ll be okay, honey,” Carole says, her voice travelling from the kitchen into the hallway. “We’ll manage – this just means tightening our belts a little.”

 

“I know.”

 

Kurt winces, hearing the exhaustion in his fathers’ voice.

 

“But… I wish…”

 

Carole makes a noise of agreement, and Kurt hears as she and his dad hug, and then the light smack of a kiss. 

 

Not wanting to intrude any further in his dad’s and Carole’s privacy, Kurt wanders back up the stairs, careful not to make any sound. 

 

He thinks about the Kurt from a few months ago who would have done anything to help his father.  Who gave up winning against Rachel in their Diva Off for something much less than this.  He wonders what happened to that boy, the one who he wishes he still was, and knows the answer. 

 

But he can’t do it.  He can’t go back to McKinley and face Karofsky, not when there is any chance that the bigger boy will come after him again.  He’s scared enough as it is, and he doesn’t have to see the boy daily. 

 

So he ignores the voices screaming in the back of his mind to tell his dad that he doesn’t like Dalton, that he wants to transfer back to McKinley.  It would be a lie, but it would save his father so much stress. 

 

But he can’t.  And maybe it’s selfish of him, and maybe it makes him a bad son, but he just can’t consider it. 

 

Sitting on the edge of his bed, fingers digging into his thighs, he is doused in guilt.

 

~

 

Three days after hearing his dad and Carole’s conversation Kurt finds himself curled on the couch beside his dad once again.  It has become a ritual of sorts for the Hummel men whenever both Finn and Carole are away, leaving them to their own devices for a short time.

 

Burt will grab a beer (light, and only one a day or he will have to deal with not only Carole, but Kurt) and sit in front of the TV, turning the channel to Deadliest Catch or Ice Road Truckers.  Kurt will inevitably close his textbooks or turn off his music, and take the opposite end of the couch.

 

They will then sit and watch the program in comfortable silence, neither fully focused on what is happening, and both aware of the other.

 

Kurt has lost count of the amount of times he’s been in this exact position.  And lately, sitting so close to his dad with such an open environment settled around them, he feels the cage that have caught his words start to fall away. 

 

Heart beating loudly in his ears, Kurt shifts to face his dad.  Burt is focused on the screen, the colours of light playing across his features.

 

“Dad?” Kurt tries to make his voice strong, but it comes out as almost a whisper.

 

Burt turns toward him and his face is open, questioning.

 

“I need to tell you something.”

 

Burt’s spine straightens, his posture becoming more alert. He is silent, but his obvious focus on Kurt says “go on”.

 

“I – I was.” Kurt swallows hard and think briefly of saying ‘I was wondering what you wanted for dinner’, but he’s gone this far.  He can do this.  His heart is fluttering madly in his chest now, and giant invisible hands clench at his lungs, winding him.

 

Before he can either convince himself to stop, or the impending panic becomes too great to handle, he says it.

 

“I was raped.”

 

The words fade from existence as though sinking into an ocean of silence, leaving the room devoid of any noise other then that of the TV blubbering in the background.  For a moment Burt is still.

 

Staring at the statuesque figure of his dad, Kurt immediately regrets saying anything.  He wants to turn back time and never consider it again. 

 

The way his father is looking at him, struck still from shock or horror, makes Kurt’s insides clench painfully.  What if his dad is disgusted with him?  What if he blames Kurt for not being strong enough?

 

And then Burt is in motion, reaching across the distance between them with both arms.

 

When he is pulled to his father’s chest, held close and tight, Kurt feels all doubt drop away.  His dad loves him, and nothing could stop that. Nothing.

 

“Oh God, Kurt,” his dad is saying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Fingers gripped in the flannel of his fathers shirt, Kurt says, “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

 

Burt is shaking his head from side to side, hat becoming dislodged as he moves, and holds Kurt tighter.  “Don’t say that, Kurt.  Oh buddy… it’s not your fault.”

 

Kurt wishes he could believe it, could revert back to believing everything his dad said like it was scripture, but he’s not a child anymore, and this isn’t something that he can think about logically.  He’s tried, and it doesn’t work.

 

Time passes slow and fast all at once, and Kurt doesn’t notice anything other than the tight grip that his dad has on him.  He is still held in his father’s arms when the front door opens and Carole’s and Finn’s voices break through their cocoon.  Emotions high, but eyes dry, Kurt just stays still, not wanting to pull away.

 

~ 

 

He should be angry. 

 

Every site that talked about rape recovery said that it was normal to feel angry, to have nightmares, to be scared.  He was everything but angry, the one thing he wished he could be. 

 

When he thought of Karofsky he almost felt a shock of something that maybe, if multiplied by one hundred, could be anger.  It was mostly fear.  And anxiety. 

 

As he sits at the dinner table, his family chatting around him through mouthfuls of food, he feels like there is something wrong with him.  Like Karofsky had been right; that he did want it, in some unconscious way.  No matter how many times he’s told himself that, no, it was nothing like that, everything that had happened had been out of his control, the thought creeps back into his mind. 

 

He doesn’t notice that he’s fallen completely silent and still, lost deep in his thoughts with eyes fixed, but unfocused, until all conversation around him stops.  When he looks up, there are three sets of eyes, each brimming with their own kind of concern, staring back at him. 

 

With all of their focus on him, and the thoughts still swirling in his mind, it is too much.  He has to get away. 

 

Placing his immaculately folded napkin on the table and pushing his chair back, Kurt says, “Thank you for dinner, Carole.  Excuse me.”  And then he makes his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room. 

 

Once he is alone, the blank walls glaring down at him, he feels open and exposed.  So he crawls into his bed and curls under the blankets.

 

He never used to spend this much time in bed, just blocking the world out with downy shields, but it has become a sanctuary for him.  Somewhere that he can be and not feel like he’s on display; it’s somewhere he feels safe. 

 

Right now, though, he can’t gain the kind of comfort he usually does from it.  He can hear Karofsky in his head, almost feel his breath on the back of his neck.  “Practically begged for it,” he had said.  At the time, Kurt had denied it, known with all of his being that it wasn’t true.  Because he didn’t want it, and he had done everything in his power to stop it.

 

It doesn’t seem that way, though. 

 

Kurt jerks, body going tense, as a knock sounds on his door.

 

“Kurt?” It’s his dad. “Can I come in, buddy?”

 

Kurt pulls himself out of the covers far enough that his head and shoulders are exposed, and tries to compose his features. 

 

“Yeah,” he calls.

 

Burt is careful when he opens the door, moving slowly, as though any sudden or large movements are not allowed. 

 

A pang of guilt twists in Kurt’s chest; he did this to his dad, he gave him something to worry about.  Something to add to the stress he’s already under financially and physically. 

 

Burt closes the door and approaches the bed, sitting on the edge but twisted to face Kurt.  His eyes, the eyes that Kurt sees in the mirror every day, are sharp and soft all at once.

 

“How are you doing?”

 

Kurt licks his lips and pulls himself into a seated position, the blankets pooling in his lap.  Without them over him, covering him, he feels bare.  He crosses his arms over his chest, holding to them tightly.

 

“Fine,” he says, hoping that he’s schooled his features well enough to hide how not-fine he really is.

 

His father knows him well, though, and tilts his head down, raising one brow.  “You sure?  You didn’t look so good at dinner.  And you didn’t eat much.” Burt pauses, looking unsure. “Is this – is this about what happened?”

 

The air in the room is thick and Kurt does everything to avoid his father’s eyes.  “No.”

 

Burt sighs softly.  “Kurt, kid, you gotta talk to me here.  I don’t know what to do.  Do you need to see someone?  Maybe talk to a professional?”

 

Kurt is shaking his head. “No. No, I’m doing fine, dad.” 

 

“Will you tell me who it was?”

 

Kurt is silent in response.

 

Burt leans forward and puts a finger under Kurt’s chin, gently forcing his eyes upward.  “Kurt, please.”

 

His dad is almost begging, and it makes Kurt want to scream “Karofsky! It was Karofsky” into the air.  But he can’t, he won’t risk Karofsky going through on his threats.  And there is no way that if he tells his dad, he won’t go after him. 

 

So Kurt bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. 

 

There is no anger in Burt’s eyes, just resignation.  “Okay.  Okay.  I don’t understand, Kurt, but if you are still in danger… you’d tell me, right?”

 

It’s one of Kurt’s biggest fears voiced.  “Yeah,” he chokes out.  “Of course.”

 

But he doesn’t know, and the fear has been eating at him for months.  It is always there, when he’s awake, when he’s asleep.  It has pervaded everything. 

 

“I love you, kiddo,” Burt says, and leans forward to wrap his arms around Kurt’s shoulders.

 

Kurt leans into the hold, resting his cheek on his father’s shoulder.  “I love you, too.”

 

~

 

The next day at breakfast Kurt pours a tall glass of orange juice, humming “What Is This Feeling?” to himself as he does so.  When he turns and starts to wander back to his room, some of the liquid sloshes over the side of the glass, leaving patters of sticky droplets across the floor.

 

“Darn,” he says, putting the glass down on the counter.

 

Wetting a dishcloth, he kneels down to wipe up the mess, careful to get it all.  When he is finished, he starts to straighten up, but then catches sight of a large form coming up from behind.

 

Without thinking, he starts to whip around, but then slips as his foot glides on the still-wet floor.

 

“Woah, dude, careful.”

 

There are two large hands on him, gripping tightly, unwavering.

 

“Don’t touch me!” Kurt pulls away from the hands on him, crashing into the cupboards in his haste.  He keeps his back against the solid wood and granite, scooting away as fast as he can. 

 

As he passes near the sink he catches the edge of the glass of juice there, and it crashes to the ground in a loud shatter of glass.  Too wrapped up in trying to get away from the large figure in the kitchen with him, Kurt keeps moving, right through the broken glass and to the corner, which he backs into as far as he can.

 

“Dude! What’s wrong? Did you cut yourself?” Finn has both of his hands in the air, palms out, showing Kurt where they are.

 

When he steps forward, trying to get closer, Kurt shrinks back, pushing himself into the corner.  “Don’t!” he yells, voice high and desperate. 

 

Finn’s eyes have gone wide and he doesn’t know what to do.  Looking down, he sees a pool of red starting to spread beneath Kurt, and his mouth drops open. “You’re bleeding,” he says, blankly.

 

Kurt doesn’t respond, just stays where he is, chest rising and falling with quickly-taken breaths.

 

Snapping out of his daze, Finn moves forward quickly, trying to see where the blood is coming from.  The second he is close enough to touch, though, Kurt has swung a fist out and landed a hard hit to the side of his face.

 

Finn cries out and steps back, cupping a hand to his cheek. “What the hell, man?”

 

Kurt continues to shake, chest heaving with even harsher breaths. “Stay away,” he says.

 

Not wanting to risk making Kurt any more upset, Finn backs up a little.  He doesn’t know what to do.  He feels useless.

 

When his phone vibrates in his pocket to signify a new text message, Finn shoves his hand down and pulls it out.  He dials his mom’s cell number and waits for an answer. 

 

When she picks up, her voice relief in his ears, he practically yells, “Something’s wrong with Kurt!” into the speaker.  “I don’t know what I did,” he says, “I was only trying to help, and now he won’t come out of the corner, and he’s, like, crying and breathing funny.”

 

Carole’s words come through the other end, and they are loud in Finns ear. “We’re in the driveway.” He couldn’t be more relieved. 

 

The front door opens and footsteps pound toward them.  Finn hits ‘end’ and waits.

 

“Kurt!” Burt practically slides into the kitchen, shoes protecting him from the mess of glass as he approaches his son. “Kurt, buddy?”

 

Kurt’s sobs break rhythm as he looks up. “Dad? Oh my God, dad.”

 

Burt moves slowly but steadily until he has Kurt in his arms.  “You okay?”

 

Finn clears his throat, and Burt looks toward him. “He cut his foot.”  He points down, and Burt follows with his eyes.  “He wouldn’t let me near, and I didn’t know what to do, and…”

 

“Finn, honey,” Carole says, putting a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Calm down.  It’s okay.” She pats his shoulder before moving away.

 

Finn watches as she grabs a clean dishtowel and walks over to where Burt is with Kurt, staying in their sight at all times. 

 

“Here,” she says, handing Burt the towel.  “We need to see how bad it is.  He might have to go to the hospital.”

 

“No!” Kurt shakes his head, eyes wild. “No. No hospital.  Please dad, please,” he begs Burt.

 

Burt just looks at Kurt with sadness in his eyes.  “Let’s just see how bad it is, okay?  We’ll decide what to do then."

 

“Kurt, honey, can I take a look?” Carole asks as she approaches. 

 

Kurt looks back at her, much of the heart-wrenching fear having dissipated, and nods.  “Yeah.”

 

Burt grabs hold of Kurt’s arms, trying to ignore the slight flinch, while Kurt lifts his left foot into the air.  Carole grasps his ankle tenderly, examining his sole.

 

“There’s some glass stuck in here,” she says.  “I can’t tell how big it is, and I really wouldn’t want to risk making the wound any worse by pulling it out.”  She looks up at Kurt, sympathy radiating toward him.  “We’re going to have to get this looked at.”

 

Kurt bites at his lip and looks over at his dad nervously.  “Are you sure?”

 

Carole, who has grabbed the dish towel back from Burt, says, “There’s no way around it.  There could be an artery or tendons or muscles damaged, and we can’t leave it in.”

 

Seeming to realise that he can’t get out of this, Kurt lets out a shaky breath. “Okay.” His dad squeezes his arm, repositioning where he’s standing. “What are you doing?”

 

Burt grunts, “I’m going to pick you up.  You can’t walk on that.”

 

“No, dad, you can’t,” says Kurt.  “Your heart.”

 

Burt’s lips pinch together and he nods roughly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Okay.  We’ll figure something out.”

 

“I’ll take him,” Finn says, taking a step forward from where he has been standing. 

 

When he sees the bigger boy, Kurt’s eyes go wide. “Oh, Finn,” he breathes, “I’m so sorry.”

 

Finn looks confused for a moment, and then he puts one hand to his face, wincing at the contact. Both Carole and Burt look to see what Kurt was apologising about and see the bruise starting to blossom across Finn’s left cheek.

 

“Honey?” Carole approaches Finn, raising a hand up to turn his face to get a better look.  “What happened?”

 

“I hit him.” 

 

Carole turns and looks at Kurt, her mouth open in surprise.

 

“Oh my – I hit him.  Oh my God, Finn.  I’m so sorry.”  Kurt eyes are filling with tears and they start to drip down his face.  “I’m sorry.”

 

Finn pulls away from his mother and goes to Kurt. “Hey, Kurt, it’s okay, man.  It’s not even that bad, see?”

 

When Kurt looks up at him, Finn tries to give him a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t work.  Kurt shudders and wraps the arm that isn’t held by his father around his middle.  It looks like he’s hugging himself.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Kurt says, repeating his apology.

 

Finn takes a half-step toward his step-brother, unsure of what to do; he wants to go up to Kurt and assure him that it’s okay, but he doesn’t want to make this any worse, either. 

 

All Kurt can think of, all Kurt can see, is the pain that he’s inflicted on someone who was just trying to help. 

 

He hurt Finn.

 

~

 

Kurt sits on the hospital bed, surrounded by white-washed bricks and machinery.  The air smells of disinfectant and urine, and there is a line of dark dust behind a cart in the corner of the room. 

 

He doesn’t hate hospitals; he knows that the people here are trying to help, that the things that happen here are to try and save lives.  It doesn’t make him want to be here, though.

 

His dad is seated in the uncomfortable chair next to his bed, elbows propped on his knees and hat discarded.  He looks tired.

 

The doctor comes through the door in a flurry of white lab coat, holding a clip-board in his hands.  “Kurt?”

 

Burt sits up, attention piqued.

 

The doctor moves to stand at the edge of the bed, almost hovering.  “The x-ray shows about three quarters of an inch of glass penetrating your foot. It’s a relatively thin piece, and we foresee little problem in removing it.”

 

Kurt nods, feeling a bit queasy at the knowledge of that much foreign body being in him.  The thought makes him itch. 

 

“When are you going to… remove it?”

 

The doctor looks at Burt, brown eyes surrounded by a chorus of wrinkles.  “Within the hour, most likely.” 

 

Burt is satisfied with the answer, and looks at Kurt, who isn’t paying attention, staring at the wall across from him with unfocused eyes. 

 

~

 

When they pull up into front of the house, the Hudson-Hummel family sit in collective silence for a moment. 

 

Kurt is sitting in the back beside Finn, leg stretched out so that he can lean his calf against the front centre consol.  Every once in a while he has been taking surreptitious looks over at his step-brother, eyes pinned to the dark bruise spreading across his cheek. 

 

It looks painful.

 

Kurt knows Finn has been trying to play it down, has been pretending that his skin doesn’t pull painfully every time he moves his jaw or smiles.  He’s doing it so that Kurt won’t feel bad, and Kurt knows this.  It makes him feel worse.

 

He and Finn haven’t always had the best of relationships, and he won’t even try to blame Finn for all of that, but they’re brothers now.  He should be doing everything in his power to protect his family, to make them happy, and instead he’s squeezing the life right out of them.

 

Lost in his thoughts, Kurt doesn’t even notice that Carole has slid from the front seat and popped the trunk, pulling out his new crutches and handing them to his dad.  When his door opens, cool air brushing around him, he looks up and out.  His dad is looking down at him, an unreadable look on his face with a hand held out to him. 

 

Awkwardly pulling his bandaged foot down off of its resting place, Kurt takes his fathers’ hand and exits the vehicle.

 

~

 

Blaine comes to visit him a few hours after he gets home from the hospital, and Kurt can’t help but think of how lucky he is to have friends who care so much for him. 

 

It was only last year that he didn’t have any close friends, at least none like Mercedes or Blaine, or even Rachel; it was him and his dad.  And he had been okay with that, but he wouldn’t give up what he has now.

 

“I hurt him,” Kurt says, leaning back against the couch cushions, foot propped up on the coffee table.

 

“Who?” Blaine asks as he sits beside Kurt, handing him a glass of milk.

 

“Thanks.” Kurt takes the glass. “Finn.  When he scared me today – I didn’t even think, I just swung.”

 

“You were scared; you weren’t thinking straight.”

 

“You say that like it’s an excuse,” Kurt says. “But it’s not.  I hit him, Blaine.  Hard enough to bruise.”  Kurt goes silent for a moment.  “What if it happens again?  What if I’m with my dad or with you? I could seriously hurt someone.”

 

“Have you thought about getting help?” Blaine looks nervous. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Come on Kurt; don’t play like you don’t know what I mean.”

 

“I know,” Kurt sighs. “I thought I could handle this.  Well… I thought I could get through it.”

 

Blaine shifts so that he is facing Kurt and places a hand on Kurt’s forearm. “You don’t talk to anyone about it, Kurt.  No one even knew until months later – and that whole time we could see that something was wrong, that you weren’t okay.  And now,” he says, staring intently into Kurt’s eyes, “knowing what you went through, I don’t know what to do to help.”

 

Kurt is silent as he stares right back at Blaine, mind whirling.

 

“You’re my best friend, Kurt, and I worry about you so much.” Blaine’s breath hitches and Kurt wishes he could erase the pain from him. “I want you to be happy, and you haven’t been for a long time.”

 

“I know,” Kurt says.  “I don’t know what to do, Blaine.” He can hear the strain in his own voice, and Kurt lets a small smile quirk his lips when Blaine’s hand tightens on his arm, reassuring.

 

“I don’t think anyone does, not really.”

 

~

 

Kurt is leaned up against his headboard, foot elevated by a pillow with a textbook in his hands, highlighters scattered around him in multiple neon colours. He will be ever appreciative of Dalton’s textbook policy; students buy and keep them, meaning that Kurt can write notes in the margins and highlight the important parts.  It makes studying that much easier.

 

When the knock at the door comes he’s almost expecting it.  He has known this was coming, and he had thought that maybe he would have had a little more time, but it’s here, and he might as well get it over with.

 

“Come in,” he calls, closing the textbook and laying it aside.

 

When his dad comes through the door, shoulders held straight and high, Kurt takes a breath, lets it fill his lungs, and mentally prepares himself for a conversation he could never truly be ready for.

 

“Hey, dad,” he says, clearing a portion of his bed of highlighters.

 

Burt takes a seat on the edge, and asks, “Studying?”

 

Glancing toward his discarded textbook, Kurt nods. “Yeah. Biology.”

 

“Anything about frogs in there? I dissected one once for biology class.”  

 

“No,” Kurt says, dragging out the word. “Not that I know of.” Giving his dad a sceptical look, he continues, “I think we dissect foetal pigs.  Or rats.”

 

Kurt watches as his father shifts uncomfortably, obviously building up to a bigger topic.

 

“So. Are you still liking Dalton?”

 

The question breaks the dam that he has built around his feelings for Dalton; on one hand he loves it, but on the other he wishes he never had to transfer in the first place.  The guilt that crashes over him is the most powerful, though.  He will never think of Dalton without thinking about how much his family has sacrificed for him.

 

“It’s great,” he acknowledges. “The curriculum is extremely intense, but everyone is nice.”

 

“Good.  That’s good.”

 

Shifting so that he is facing Kurt more fully, Burt looks like he is steeling himself.  “Are you sure you won’t-”

 

“Dad,” Kurt interrupts, “no.”

 

Kurt finds his dad’s eyes searching his, like he could pull the answer from their depths.

 

“I know. I know, but Kurt you gotta understand-”

 

“I do,” Kurt says. “I do understand, and I’m so sorry, but I’m not telling. Please,” he practically begs, “ _please_ stop asking.”

 

Kurt watches his father’s throat bob as he swallows hard, like he’s forcing down an onslaught of words.  Kurt hates that he can’t tell him, but it’s for the best.

 

He’s sure of it.

 

The way his dad’s face crumples isn’t obvious; it’s in the tension around his brow, in the subtle bulging of his jaw muscles, the tint of his eyes as emotion takes them.  Yet another thing that Kurt has inflicted on someone he loves; another branch in the wreathe of pain he’s building for his family. 

 

His father is quick to compose his features, and he’s straightening his spine once again.  “We need to talk about what happened today.”

 

“I had expected so,” Kurt whispers, tearing his eyes to stare at his hands interlocked in his lap.

 

“What happened, Kurt?  Finn isn’t talking about it; he’s practically blaming himself for everything.”

 

“It wasn’t his fault. It was me.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Sighing lowly, Kurt looks back up at his dad. “He was trying to help me.  I slipped in the kitchen and he tried to catch me, but-” Kurt licks his lips. “When he grabbed me, there were suddenly these hands on me, and I couldn’t think.  Dad, I didn’t mean to.”

 

“I know, kiddo,” Burt says, leaning in to brush a strand of hair off of Kurt’s forehead. “It’s not your fault.”

 

Sniffling, Kurt wipes a single tear from under his right eye.

 

“I want you to consider something for me, okay?”

 

Biting his lip and trying to hold back the tears, Kurt asks, “What do you propose?”

 

Burt nods in approval. “We can start small.  I know you don’t want to do counselling, and before you protest, just hear me out.” Burt pins Kurt with his eyes. “I don’t know much about all that mind-therapy stuff, but I’ve done some research and talked with Carole, and we think it could help you.”

 

Kurt has been protesting going to counselling, but the more it is brought up, the more he thinks about it, the better it is starting to sound.  Maybe if he does this he’ll be able to move on, try and dig himself out of this rut he’s stuck in.

 

“If I start going to therapy – can I stop if I don’t like it?”

 

Burt looks to be considering the idea.  “If you go, and you give it a good try, and I don’t mean one session, Kurt, and absolutely cannot stand it, then yeah.  But I want you to try this, and I don’t want it for me, buddy.  I want to see you get through this for _you_.”

 

Kurt nods his head, looking at his dad with warmth in his heart.  “I love you so much, dad.” 

 

~

 

Kurt goes back to Dalton the Tuesday after he gets his crutches and is greeted by more concerned questions and gazes than he can take. 

 

Jeff approaches him before he can even get to his first class and takes his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as he walks beside Kurt in even strides.

 

“What happened?” he asks, gesturing to Kurt’s crutches.

 

Trying to laugh as casually as possible, Kurt replies, “Oh, nothing, really.  I stepped on some glass during the weekend and had to have it removed and stitched up.”

 

“Ouch,” says Jeff, handing him his backpack back as they reach the door to his class.  “I hope it heals fast.”

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

Kurt waves in goodbye as the other Warbler departs and turns to enter his class, only to be faced with Blaine standing right beside him.

 

“Hi,” he says, looking down at his friend.  “How was the rest of your weekend?”

 

“You didn’t tell me you would be back today.” Blaine looks disappointed.

 

Shrugging, Kurt says, “Yeah.  I’m doing pretty good with the crutches, so we decided I could come back.”

 

“I would have met you at your car if I’d known.”

 

Smiling widely, Kurt leans awkwardly on his crutches so that he can bump Blaine’s shoulder with his own.  It’s something that Blaine usually does to him, but it feels like the right thing to do.  “I know.  Thanks, Blaine.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Just thanks,” Kurt says, earning a smile back.

 

~

 

A few weeks later Kurt’s foot is nearly healed, only the slightest twinges left to haunt him, leaving only a slight limp.  In celebration of his newly-acquired mobility, Kurt decides to go shopping, taking a Saturday evening to indulge in retail therapy.

 

The mall is relatively calm when Kurt gets there, the heavy crowd having cleared off.  He used to enjoy the rush of people, the press of bodies shuffling through too-small isles. 

 

Now it’s too much.  Someone standing too close to his back, just out of view, will send his heart pounding and his limbs cold.  A shadow moving close from behind him will lengthen and fasten his stride and he will send little glances behind him. 

 

But this is okay; this relative calm of the evening.  It’s enough that he can go through a couple of shops, examining articles of clothing with a trained eye.  He really is in his element.

 

It isn’t long, though, before his foot starts to ache, so he heads for the food court.  When he gets there he buys a bottle of water and sits at a table, taking the weight from his injury and watching people move about. 

 

There are families sitting in groups, various foods spread across their tables, couples laughing over frozen yoghurt, elderly people sitting around with their canes and walkers to chat.  It’s like any other time he’s gone to the mall.

 

Kurt sees him as he’s exiting the food court, plastic water bottle clenched in one hand with its lid off and starting to spill over from the pressure.  The broad shoulders and red jacket send a spike of panic right to his core.  The hairs on his neck stand up and he can feel as the blood rushes away from his skin, leaving his hands cold and stomach tight.

 

Kurt hasn’t seen Karofsky in months, but even this slight glance from far away affects him like there has been no separation at all.

 

Trying to keep calm, Kurt turns sharply to the right, ducking into the hallway leading to the bathrooms.  He takes a quick look over his shoulder as he walks with quick, long strides, and sees no one following him. 

 

As soon as he reaches the entrance to the men’s washroom he goes in, looking back once again and seeing nothing. 

 

Hands shaking and feeling nausea crawling in his stomach, Kurt lets out a low breath, imagining all of his tension draining away.  He just has to wait here for a couple of minutes, and then he’ll make his way through the most open parts of the mall to where he’s parked. 

 

Confident in his plan, Kurt backs up to the end of the bathroom, keeping watch on the door, and stands by the hand dryer with his back to the wall. 

 

He waits for about five minutes, just standing with his back to the wall, and no one enters.  Feeling a little calmer, Kurt blows out a breath and shrugs his shoulders a couple of times to release the built-up tension there. 

 

Pushing off from his place at the wall, Kurt takes a moment to look in the mirror.  He is satisfied, and turns to leave, but as he faces the exit he is blocked, a large chest pressing him until he hits the wall again.

 

“Hey there, slut,” Karofsky leers, pressing his face in close. “You just couldn’t keep away, could you?”

 

“Get away from me,” says Kurt, loud enough that the words bounce around the room in a distorted echo. 

 

“Awe c’mon, Fancy, didn’t you enjoy it last time?”

 

Scared and angry, feeling dizzy and sick, Kurt feels determination settle in him. Tensing his abdomen and keeping his head and shoulders still, Kurt rams his knee upward, catching Karofsky in the groin. 

 

The taller boy hunches forward with a groan, hands reaching to cup himself through his pants. “Little bitch,” he snarls.

 

And then he’s grabbing at Kurt’s body with harsh fingers, pinning both of Kurt’s arms to his body with one of his own.  Once he’s got a relatively secure hold, Karofsky’s free hand reaches down to grasp Kurt’s privates tightly.

 

Screaming in pain as his genitals are handled so violently, Kurt kicks forward, catching Karofsky’s ankle with the toe of his shoe.

 

“Fuck,” Karofsky pants, “feisty little fairy.” He then smashes his lips forward into Kurt’s, pressing hard and with no finesse.

 

Kurt rips his lips away, twisting his head hard to the left, feeling as Karofsky’s light spatter of stubble scratches across his face. Taking in a deep breath he yells, “Stop! Let me go!”

 

“Shut up!” snaps the bigger boy, pulling his hand from groping at Kurt’s pants to cover his mouth, pressing down on Kurt’s swollen lips with enough pressure to slice the inside of Kurt’s mouth with his own teeth. 

 

Whimpering as blood floods around his tongue, Kurt can only snuffle short breaths in through his nose.

 

“That’s better.”

 

As he is pinned to the wall, Kurt can feel the adrenaline thrumming through him, making his limbs quiver and breaths come quick.  The metallic, tangy taste of blood is all around him, and with every inhale it seems that some is either sliding its way down his throat or up into his sinuses. 

 

He can’t go through this again. 

 

He was just starting to come to terms with it having happened, with maybe getting some help to live with it.  Because he doesn’t think you ever truly got over something like rape, but maybe he could learn to thrive despite it.  It would be better than wilting because of it.

 

So as Karofsky leans in, eyes intent on his neck, he jolts forward, opening his mouth and clamping down on the soft thickness of Karofsky’s palm with as much power as he can. 

 

He’s not a fighter, but he’s scared and he’s pissed and he just wants to go home and be with his family. He wants to stop being afraid of this stupid, lumbering _Neanderthal_ that has made his life hell.  He wants his life back.

 

It’s like all of the anger that he has been devoid of for the past couple of months is suddenly in him, curling in his stomach and in his chest. 

 

As Karofsky releases his mouth, shaking his hand in pain, Kurt wrenches one of his arms from the tight hold it is in and punches forward.  His knuckles catch Karofsky on the side of the nose, and Kurt feels something like satisfaction at the sound of crunching bone and cartilage, at the way Karofsky’s nose caves beneath his hand.

 

Blood starts spurting from Karofsky’s nose, running over his lips and down his chin to catch in the neckline of his t-shirt, spraying out in a fine mist as he yells, “Fuck!”

 

Having freed his other arm Kurt swings again, landing another blow to the side of Karofsky’s head.  The other boy sags to the left, head clutched in his hands, and Kurt tries to dodge around him, but the metal of a bathroom stall blocks his way. 

 

Letting out a little scream of frustration, Kurt turns the other way, tries to shoulder past Karofsky’s bulk, but the other boy is recovering from the blows and has stood up straight again. 

 

There is no more deliberateness to Karofsky’s movements as he grabs Kurt by the neck and slams him backward, pressing the smaller body into the wall hard enough to cut off all air.  When the hold doesn’t let up, doesn’t allow Kurt to gasp in any precious oxygen, he grasps at Karofsky’s hands, wrists and forearms with his own hands, prying and clawing in desperation.

 

When the pressure releases Kurt gasps, coughing and choking as he crumples inward, trying to breathe in as much as he can.  He is only given a brief moment before a fist comes at him from his left, moving so fast that he is only afforded a split-second sight of blurred motion before it strikes. 

 

When the knuckles connect with his face Kurt tries to move with the motion, tries to lessen the damage, but it came so fast that he doesn’t have the time.  The noise of Karofsky’s fist hitting him is loud, too loud to be normal, and as Kurt falls to the ground from the momentum of it, he realizes why. 

 

Once he’s stopped moving, the unforgiving hardness of the floor beneath him, the agony takes him over so completely that his eyes go dark and his breath stops in his throat.  His face is on fire, the pain radiating outward from his cheekbone to all reaches of his body.  The hit has broken something, the loud crack accompanying Karofsky’s fist was the sound of his own bones snapping.

 

Stunned and overcome by the sharp breathlessness of the pain, Kurt can’t do anything to protect himself as Karofsky lands a kick to his stomach.  When he can focus, just enough to try and curl inward to shield his stomach, Kurt cries out sharply as Karofsky kicks forward again.

 

“Stupid,” Karofsky grunts as a kick catches Kurt in the chest, and he feels nothing but pain as something gives way, “little” another kick, another crunch of bone, “bitch.” This time the kick lands higher, flipping him from his side to his back with the force of it. Karofsky is panting furiously, the blood from his nose dripping steadily downward where some of it lands on Kurt’s face, warm and wet.  

“Hey! What are you doing?”

 

Karofsky jerks his head around to look behind him, eyebrows pinned together in anger. “Back off, man.  None of your business.”

 

 “Get away from him.”

 

“Fuck you,” Karofsky spits. “The little bitch is getting what he deserves. Back off.”

 

Kurt groans, head lolling slightly on his neck. It hurts to breathe and the room is spinning around him in a sickening haze, floor and walls and ceiling blending and churning.  All he can see of the newcomer is a flash of grey hair and charcoal business slacks. 

 

Karofsky’s feet are just out of his range of sight, but he hears when the boy comes toward him again, jerky and sudden in his anger.

 

“Stop,” the stranger demands, his voice louder as he moves further into the bathroom to where they are. 

 

After that all Kurt registers hearing is a sharp ‘smack’ of flesh hitting flesh, the sound of running footsteps, and then silence. 

 

When a hand gently rests on his shoulder Kurt jumps and groans out a high-pitched whimper as his injuries are aggravated. 

 

“Sorry, sorry.  Holy shit.” The stranger is on the floor beside him, throwing occasional looks behind him as he reaches for his phone. 

 

“Where?” Kurt tries to say, but his throat feels shredded and there is blood coating his mouth.  The result is nothing more than a weak gargle of incomprehensible noise.

 

Kind eyes look down at him. “He’s gone.” The stranger then pulls his phone to his ear and smiles reassuringly at him. “It’ll be okay.  You’ll be fine.”

 

Kurt wants to believe him.  He wants to believe him with all of his being, but he hurts so bad right now that he almost doesn’t want to know what kind of damage has been done. And Karofsky’s still out there.  He could find him again.

 

Hearing the helpful stranger start to talk into his phone, Kurt feels his mind start to slip away.  The adrenaline that had pulsed through him is seeping away, leaving him shaking and his mind disjointed.

 

Kurt doesn’t have a clear recollection of anything other then a steady presence at his side and white-hot pain until the paramedics arrive with the sound of booted feet and rattling wheels trailing them.  Kurt shifts to get a look, but the shooting pain from his ribs stops him from moving further. 

 

“Hey, don’t move, man.”  A hand gently pulls him back to rest on his side, a solid presence that remains steady on his shoulder. 

 

As the first paramedic kneels down by him, voice ringing in his ears with all the clarity of tar, Kurt’s mind loses what focus it had.

 

~

 

He doesn’t remember much from the trip to the hospital.  Little flashes are all that remain; the painful jar of the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance, the change in light and sound as he is wheeled into the hospital.  Kind grey eyes that look down into his, ones that he has not seen again, but which he is grateful for nonetheless.

 

The first time he wakes up it is hard to breathe and his head feels like it is caught in a vice, all of this only counterweight to the grinding pain of his chest.  He doesn’t try to stay awake that time, instead letting himself slip back under into the blackness of sleep.

 

~

 

Kurt doesn’t wake up all at once; instead, he comes back to coherence in parts, like a rising tide creeping up the beach in waves.  His mind feels fuzzy, like he’s been sleeping for too long and not enough time all at once, and his body is oddly disconnected. 

 

Drifting there, half-awake and half-asleep, Kurt hears the sound of voices, one male and one female.  As the fog of white noise that has filled his ears starts to lift, he can recognize his dad and Carole.

 

“I’m his father,” his dad is saying, something in his voice that Kurt never wants to hear again. “I’m supposed to protect him.”

 

The words stab him in the heart like a bolt of lightening on a clear day, harsh and unexpected.  His dad is blaming himself.  It is so wrong on so many levels that Kurt can’t even formulate a response, can’t think of anything he could say to make it better.

 

Carole murmurs something, too quiet for Kurt to hear, but loud enough to hear the compassion. 

 

“It’s my job, Carole.” Kurt hears the sound of crinkling clothes. “It’s my job to make sure he’s happy and safe. And I failed him.” The words sound like a revelation in the air. “I failed him,” Burt whispers again.

 

Kurt rolls his head toward the voices and opens his eyes, sees his dad and Carole sitting side-by-side holding each others’ hands. 

 

It’s so wrong that at first Kurt can only stare at his father in shock. He was the one that promised that he was safe.  He was the one that had promised to tell his dad if he wasn’t.  He was the one that had lied.  If there is anyone at fault it’s him. 

 

“Dad,” he says, but his throat is sore and dry, leaving his voice a mere shadow of itself.

 

His dad looks over, eyes wide in surprise, mouth gaping open. “Kurt,” he says, almost reverently. He stands and is at Kurt’s side in a few quick steps, reaching out to hold Kurt’s left hand in his own.

 

Carole comes up almost as fast and smiles at him, her eyes surrounded by dark circles of exhaustion. “It’s good to see you awake.” Carole looks between Kurt and his father, eyes misty and soft. “I’m going to go get Finn.  I’m sure he wants to see you, Kurt.”

 

Kurt looks up at Carole, thankful for her in ways that he never thought possible since his mom died. “Thank you,” he says.

 

She just smiles at him and leans down, placing a single kiss on his forehead. “See you soon, sweetie.”

 

And then she is gone.

 

“Hey buddy.”  His dad sits on his bed, keeping a hold of his hand.  Like he can’t stand the thought of ever letting go.  “How are you feeling?”

 

Kurt swallows, his throat protesting wildly to the action, and tries to evaluate the numerous twinges in his body. “Sore. Confused.” His voice sounds weird, not anything like he is used to hearing.  For a moment he feels panic rise in his chest; what if his voice has been damaged?  What if Karofsky had ruined _that_ for him, too?

 

He tries not to think about it.

 

“I was so worried, Kurt,” Burt says.  He looks little better than he did after getting home from the hospital after his heart attack.  As Kurt’s eyes peruse his father’s face, he thinks that maybe he looks even worse. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Kurt whispers, the words slipping out easily.

 

His dad looks confused and stunned, and then he’s shaking his head vehemently. “What for? Kurt, you have _nothing_ to be sorry for.”

 

“I couldn’t stop him,” Kurt whispers, clenching his dad’s hand. “I wasn’t strong enough.”

 

Burt makes a noise in the back of his throat, in protest or in agreement, Kurt can’t tell. “Kurt, buddy, that’s not your fault. _None_ of this is your fault.”

 

“I know,” he says, voice high and tight. “I know that logically, but I still feel like – like it was.”

 

His dad’s eyes are boring into his and Kurt watches as wetness builds and then spills over.  A spike of pain pierces his chest, seeing his dad so upset.

 

“I’m sorry dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t-”

 

“Kurt, stop,” Burt says, leaning forward to hold him tight. “Please just listen to me, okay?”

 

Kurt looks down, focusing on the pattern of plaid on his father’s shirt.  He can understand what his father is telling him from a logical standpoint, but it doesn’t parallel what he is feeling. Not at all.

 

His dad pulls away, holding his shoulders in his large palms, just looking into Kurt’s face, searching with his eyes.  He then puts his hands to either side of Kurt’s face, careful to navigate around the bandages on the left side, his calloused skin rough against Kurt’s own.  Kurt is trapped by his father’s eyes, unable to look away.

 

“Kurt – you never be sorry for this.  Okay, buddy?  You never apologise for what that bastard did.” His dad’s voice is strong and gentle, like his hands. 

 

Kurt licks his lips, tastes the salty tang of tears, and nods.  “Okay,” he whispers, lips trembling.  When the word passes his lips, no matter how much he wishes he could mean it with all of his being, it still feels like a flimsy caricature.

 

His dad’s thumb strokes his right cheek, wiping at tears. “I’m so proud of you, Kurt,” he says gruffly. “You are so strong, just like your mom.”

 

Kurt sobs and leans into his dad’s hands.  Hearing that, hearing his father’s belief in him, makes him feel good and accepted.  But he’s not that strong, he’s not made of concrete and rebar.  If anything he feels like he’s made of glass, thin and cracked, but not wholly broken.

 

~

 

Blaine comes into the room with a vase in hand, the bright flowers fresh and graceful, obviously well-arranged.  Once he has passed the threshold he hesitates, looking at Kurt with his mouth slightly agape.  It only lasts for a moment, but Kurt knows he was taking in Kurt’s face, how bad the damage is. 

 

“Where should I?” Blaine indicates the flowers he’s holding before glancing around the room.

 

Kurt smiles lightly and gestures at the window sill. “They’re lovely.” And they are.

 

Blaine looks nervous and unsure. “I thought you might want something nice to look at and smell while you’re in here.”

 

The bed dips as Blaine sits down, sheets and blankets crinkling under his weight.  He is wearing his Dalton uniform, the tie slightly crooked from nervous fiddling – a habit Kurt has tried to break him of, but has been largely unsuccessful in doing.

 

“How are you feeling?” Blaine’s voice is calm and familiar.

 

“Sore,” Kurt says, throat protesting.  He reaches for the glass of water at the table by his bed, hand steadier than it had been, and he feels Blaine’s eyes on him so strongly that he pauses.

 

Looking up at the other boy, he traces Blaine’s line of sight to the hand that he has reached out.  It’s his right one, which is splinted and bandaged over his ring and pinkie fingers.  Pulling his arm back toward himself, Kurt holds his hand in Blaine’s direction.  “I broke two fingers when I broke Karofsky’s nose.”

 

Blaine licks his lips and nods. “Good.”

 

Kurt raises his brows, which catches Blaine’s attention to what he had just uttered. 

 

Immediately apologising, Blaine’s mouth is half-open as he shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.  I just – I meant ‘good’ that you broke his nose.  Not that you broke your fingers.”

 

Chuckling, and then wincing at the movement as it transfers through his ribs, Kurt puts his uninjured hand on Blaine’s arm. “It’s okay.  I got that.”

 

Looking sheepish and unsure, Blaine nods his head.

 

It’s odd, and something that Kurt has noticed a lot over the past day, that the people who are not hurt, the ones who have to deal with it from the outside looking in, they are the ones that seem to stumble through.  So he takes pity on his friend.

 

“I guess I should have let my dad teach me how to throw a punch.” He throws in a little laugh at the end, low and sincere.

 

Blaine’s brows pull together and he cocks his head. “Huh?”

 

“When I was little my dad wanted to teach me how to fight.” Kurt chuckles self-depreciatingly. “He must have known I’d need it back then, too.” When he looks up at Blaine, the other boy is staring at him like he wants to protest, but can’t find the words.

 

Kurt almost wishes that Blaine would tell him ‘I told you so’, that anyone would.  Because the guilt that he feels, however constantly-evolving in form it is, is creeping under his skin and coiled in his chest like some creature.  Just waiting to spring awake. 

 

Maybe if it was all out in the open, maybe if his dad and Blaine would just tell him he should have done something about it, told someone so that Karofsky could be punished, he wouldn’t have to deal with it alone. 

 

Because, and this is where Kurt wishes he didn’t know himself so well, maybe if he could talk about these things they would become less about him and more about other people. If he could lay this all out, spread-eagle and naked, someone would reassure him that he didn’t do anything wrong.  But it feels like he did, like this second encounter was all because he was too afraid to act. 

 

Blaine shifts, bringing Kurt attention back to him. “How long are you going to be here?”

 

Kurt shrugs slightly. “I don’t know yet.  They had to operate yesterday,” he says, pointing at his bandaged face. “Karofsky broke my,” he hesitates slightly, saying the word carefully, “zygomatic arch, and it needed to be moved back into place and fixated.  They screwed metal plates into the bone.”

 

Kurt watches Blaine’s face, sees his expression of mild horror and concern, and almost wishes he’d informed him with a little less aplomb.  A silence stretches between them, Blaine taking in Kurt’s revelation, and Kurt focusing on the flowers that Blaine brought him. 

 

As he traces the long green stems and luscious petals with his eyes, Kurt takes in a little breath. “Blaine?” he asks. “Do you think this is my fault?”

 

“What? No.” Blaine’s response is immediate, no thought involved. “Of course not.”

 

Kurt looks at Blaine. “But I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t ask for help.” His face feels hot as he ducks his head.

 

“Kurt – I can’t even begin to imagine what you have gone through.” Blaine grabs his left hand in both of his and just holds on. “You not telling anyone, not going to anyone for help -- I understand.  As best I can.  Do I wish you would have come to me? Yeah.” He squeezes Kurt’s hand. “But I don’t blame you for it.  I don’t think anyone does.”

 

Kurt averts his gaze, face flushing even more.

 

“Except you,” Blaine says and then sighs.  “I know you can’t just change how you feel.  But the people who care for you, the people who love you, we don’t think that.  We just want what’s best for you.  For you to be happy.  Okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Kurt says, voice hoarse and low. 

 

Blaine’s hands tighten on him one more time and then let go.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an iPod and headphones. “I thought you might like this,” he says, handing the device to Kurt. “I couldn’t find yours, and I know you like your privacy, so I didn’t think you’d want me looking around too much.” He bites his lip. “That’s mine.”

 

Kurt smiles as best he can, cheek too swollen and sore to allow much, and sniffs lightly as his eyes start to tear. “It’s perfect.”

 

“We like a lot of the same music, so I thought maybe you would like what is on there.  Lots of Broadway. But you might want to watch out for all of the Top 40.” He looks so unsure, like this kind gesture is something to be worried about.  It makes Kurt want to lean forward and pull him into his arms.

 

“It really is perfect Blaine.” He runs his fingers over the case of the MP3 player, across the smooth length of the cord to the earplugs.  “You are so amazing, Blaine Anderson.”

 

Blaine huffs and leans in close.  “You’re not so bad either, Mr. Hummel.”

 

~

 

Kurt watches Blaine leave with a smile on his face.  The iPod is still resting in his hands and the smell of fresh flowers occasionally drifts by his nose; it reminds him that people care about him, that they want him to feel better.  He tries not to think about how it also means they know he’s been hiding things from them. 

 

He is scrolling through the selection of music, searching for something that calls to him, when his dad walks in the door. The man looks worn, older than he really is, and Kurt can’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Burt sits in the chair best his bed and leans back, barely sparing a glance for the device in Kurt’s hands.

 

Kurt shrugs minutely and says, “Not too bad, considering.”

 

His dad nods. “Yeah.” He stretching his legs out a little in front of him and then leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “The cops are probably going to come by soon. Are you going to be okay talking to them?”

 

Kurt stops playing with the iPod and gives his father his full attention. “I – I think so.” He licks his lips, wincing at the pull it causes to the swollen and tender flesh of his cheek. “They’re going to charge him?”

 

Burt nods. “Yeah – what he did at the mall? They’ve got enough evidence to convict him for assault. Especially with the witness.”

 

“Who was he?”

 

Burt smiles a little, and Kurt knows it’s because he’s happy that there is some good in the world. “Just a man who happened to take his lunch in the food court. His name’s Ben.”

 

“Dad. If – if he, Ben, hadn’t walked in, if he hadn’t been there –”

 

“He did and he was. And I will be forever grateful to him.”

 

Kurt finds himself nodding; his dad, without saying it explicitly, is telling him not to think of ‘what if’s. Not to focus on how bad it could have been; to try and stay positive.

 

“He’s already provided his statement. They also have security footage of the hall where the bathrooms are – they will be able to identify Karofsky there, too. He won’t get away with this.” His dad’s voice is determined and sure.

 

Kurt looks at his hands, at his broken fingers, and asks in a small voice, “What about before? What he did – before,” Kurt finishes lamely, not able to voice his question fully.

 

“I don’t know.” His dad looks pained, like he wishes he could solving everything for Kurt, but knows he can’t.

 

“Right.”

 

~

 

Finn comes into Kurt’s hospital room after the cops leave, and Kurt wants nothing more than to be alone. He’s been asked so many questions, had to repeat himself over and over again, and no matter how well he concealed it, one of the police officers was more condescending than sympathetic.

 

It feels like his mind has been ripped apart in their attempt to gather information, and as much as Kurt tries not to be, he is angry that they were so thorough. Because right now everything is swirling around in his mind and his emotions are running wild.

 

Finn doesn’t say anything as his sits in one of the two chairs by Kurt’s bed, just pulls out his phone and starts typing a message. Kurt wishes they were in the ICU or any of the cell-restricted zones just so that he would have a reason to yell at Finn. It is completely absurd, his irritation at his step-brother, but it’s there and he can’t help but feel it.

 

Something like disgust rolls over Kurt’s shoulders and down his back as he considers his emotions and how they are playing at the tense chords of his body. He hates being out of control, and it seems, lately, that he finds himself that way more and more often.

 

“Did I make you feel like this?”

 

“What? What are you talking about?”

 

“Last year, when I had that stupid crush on you, did I make you feel scared? Or – or threatened?” Kurt pauses, breath catching. “That I would do something to you?”

 

Finn’s eyebrows shoot up and he is shaking his head almost instantly. “No! I mean, yeah it was kind of weird, and you know I’m sorry about what I said. But I wasn’t – scared.”

 

Kurt nods shakily, but feels no relief.

 

“Why would you think that?” Finn looks so confused, so lost, and it is more of a reassurance than any of his words.

 

“It’s just – I don’t know.” Kurt ends with a shrug. He really doesn’t know; half of the things he does and says are propelled by some feeling, something that he doesn’t quite understand. This is just one of those things.

 

A deep silence passes between them, and when Kurt looks over at Finn he knows something is wrong, that Finn is thinking about something unsavoury. Finn is still, almost unnaturally so, as they sit in silence.  His posture is slumped but tense, as though he is trying to hide and protect himself – Kurt doesn’t know what from.

 

“I never knew how bad it was – how much he hurt you.  Maybe if I has stepped up sooner, really manned up before it was too late, I could have stopped it.”

 

Kurt’s head jerks left and right slowly and he tries to interrupt. “Finn –”

 

“I knew he was harassing you, that it was more than just bullying, and I didn’t do anything. I let this happen.”

 

Finn is staring at the ground intently, his lips pulled into a frown, and Kurt can see how angry Finn is, angry at himself, by the red tint to his face. “Finn you couldn’t have known.  You can’t blame yourself for this, just like – just like I can’t blame myself for this.” Finn looks up at Kurt, eyebrows pinched together. “If there is one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that I couldn’t control what Karofsky did, and neither could you. Or anybody, for that matter, not when we had no idea what he was going to do.”

 

Another thing that Kurt has learned from all of this is that people like to give and take blame more than any other emotion. 

 

~

 

Kurt leaves the hospital in a wheelchair, his lap full of flowers and gifts from friends, with Finn pushing him just a little too slow.  His dad is parked in the hospital’s patient pick-up zone, and Kurt winces as he stands, bracing an arm around his ribs, and lets two sets of hands help him into the passenger seat.

 

While Finn rolls the empty wheelchair back inside the hospital, his dad hands Kurt one of the vases of flowers to hold between his feet on the ride home. It’s the arrangement that Blaine gave him – the borrowed iPod rests in his jacket pocket.

 

“You still feeling good, kiddo?”

 

Kurt looks at his dad. “Yes. You don’t have to ask me every five minutes.”

 

His dad smiles at him and shakes his head. “I know, I know. You remember what it was like when I came home from the hospital?” At Kurt’s nod he continues, “Then you know what this feels like. Give me a break.”

 

The easy way that they are speaking, the lack of tension in their relationship, makes it easy for Kurt to say, “I’ll try. But I don’t promise anything.”

 

His dad just laughs.

 

~

 

Kurt has only been home for two hours when the doorbell rings and his dad shrugs at him before going to answer it. Kurt is propped on the couch with a blanket covering him, the remnants of a quick meal – soft and easy to chew – in a bowl beside him.

 

“Hey Kurt?” His dad pokes his head around the corner, a questioning expression on his face. “Do you mind having a couple of visitors?”

 

“No – that’s fine,” Kurt replies. “But dad?” His dad comes back around the corner at his question. “I don’t want them to know everything.” Meaning only that he was attacked by Karofsky, not what fuelled the attacks.

 

His dad nods in understanding and adjusts the hat on his head. “I won’t say anything, buddy. I’ll talk to Finn, too, just in case.”

 

“Thanks.” Kurt is so lucky to have his father; he honestly doesn’t know what he would do without him.

 

Kurt tries to sit up straighter as Mercedes walks into the room, her eyes red and sorrow standing out loudly in her posture.

 

“Oh, Boo,” she sighs as she comes in close, hand reaching out like she wants to cradle his face, but is afraid to hurt him even more. The bruising on his face is spectacular, spread across the whole left side in a mass of black, blue and red.

 

“Hey, ‘Cedes.” Kurt uses his uninjured hand to pull her in for a light hug, stopping only when his ribs start to protest. “That coat is fabulous,” he compliments.

 

Mercedes smirks at him and stands to do a little twirl. “You think so? I just got it on Friday.”

 

“Absolutely,” Kurt assures her. “If it wasn’t for the fact that it would never go with my complexion, I would be jealous.”

 

Mercedes giggles and sits next to him on the couch, grabbing his left hand in her own. “We’ll just have to go shopping and get something equally fantastic.”

 

Kurt is about to answer when he hears a very familiar voice speaking from just around the corner. Mercedes rolls her eyes, not entirely fondly, and says, “Rachel came, too.”

 

Understanding dawning, Kurt stifles a sigh as he hears what she is saying to his dad.

 

“I’ve spoken to my dads, and we are all in agreement that you should seek the backing of the ACLU in this matter.” Rachel’s voice is loud and demanding, and it reminds Kurt of many times in New Directions.

 

“She’s been on a tirade since it happened,” whispers Mercedes. “Well, we all were, but she’s been pushing for development of a local PFLAG and anti-bullying assemblies.”

 

Kurt huffs and smiles. “It’s actually nice to know that she cares, you know?”

 

“Rachel, I really appreciate the advice, but really –”

 

Mercedes and Kurt exchange a look and laugh as Rachel cuts his dad off and starts listing the benefits of the ACLU. Kurt has missed Mercedes, and having her here, having Rachel here, lets him fall into a place of familiar and comfortable friendship.

 

It helps him to feel a little less alone.

 

~

 

Kurt jerks awake, sweat cooling on his brow and the sheets of his bed thrown haphazardly to the side.

 

There are fresh tear tracks on his face, trailing to wet his neck and pool in his ears.  They are cold and slick beneath his fingers as he brushes them away, wiping them on to his duvet with shaking fingers.

 

His room is dark and quiet around him, the veil of late night having descended in full – it makes every little feeling of fear and isolation magnified.

 

The nightmare has already faded into oblivion, but the fear, the helplessness, remains.  The phantom sensation of pain and despair are crawling under his skin, bug-like and lingering.

 

He feels disgusting and scared; the fear has him shaking, heart beating rapidly and an odd, wrong, sensation is buzzing throughout him.

 

As he turns to his right side and curls into a foetal position, he can’t help but want to be with someone.  Someone who can help alleviate his agony and soothe his fear.

 

Sniffling and wiping at his eyes again, Kurt makes his way out of bed and across his room to the hallway.  Opening the door allows the sound of the downstairs TV to wash over him; it is well passed midnight, and Kurt knows from experience that his father has likely fallen asleep on the couch.  When Burt can’t sleep, he will crash on the couch with the sound of the TV playing in the background.

 

Descending the stairs and walking quietly into the living room, Kurt sees his dad lying on the couch, feet stretched out to push against the opposite armrest and one hand hanging over the edge.  Infomercials are playing on the TV, the enthusiastic voice of the narrator a low buzz of noise that complements the changing lights reflecting around the room.

 

Kurt wants to crawl into his dad’s arms and let everything fall away.

 

But he’s kept so much to himself for so long, has been so private, that going to his father now is something that he both does and does not want to do.  There is a mixture of embarrassment and shame that tightens his throat, makes it nearly impossible to share how he is feeling and what he needs.

 

Instead of waking his slumbering father, Kurt pads silently until he is standing in front of the couch.  It is the same one that his dad spent many months recovering from his heart attack on, and Kurt has many memories surrounding the piece of furniture.  Some wonderful and some not.

 

Looking down at his father and battling with his deep desire to wake him, talk to him, Kurt bites his lips and shakes his head.  He then sinks down until he is settled on the floor in front of the couch, right side leaning into the cushions without disturbing his dad, and pulls his knees up until he can comfortably rest his head on them. 

 

With the sound of his dad’s deep, even breaths just inches away, Kurt is eventually lulled into a light sleep.  He feels like he is floating, caught on a buoyant current of unconscious thought propelled by his exhaustion.

 

Time loses all meaning, and when a hand suddenly connects to Kurt’s shoulder, pulling him out of sleep and grounding him solidly, he can’t remember where he is or why.

 

Blinking open his eyes wearily, Kurt sees his dad laying half propped up on the couch, face reflecting tiredness and concern. 

 

“Hey kiddo.  What are you doing out here?”

 

As the fog of sleep clears from his mind, memories of fear and pain are revealed, reminded Kurt exactly why he fell asleep leaning against the couch.

 

Tired, Kurt leans his head against a soft cushion, close enough to his father’s arm that he can feel the warmth of it. “Bad dreams.”

 

The hand on his shoulder disappears and a wash of loss, of loneliness, comes over him.  He hears his dad shift position, sitting up, and Kurt glances over just in time for a set of hands to return and start tugging him.

 

“Up,” his dad says, pulling Kurt until he is sitting in the gap left between him and the arm of the couch.

 

A strong arm wraps around Kurt’s shoulders and holds him close, allowing Kurt to lean his head on his dad’s shoulder and relax into the embrace.

 

His dad doesn’t say anything, just sits with him and holds him, and Kurt is stripped by the simplicity of it.  This simple gesture of caring and love is like a downpour that puts out the fire of anxiety and depression burning within him.

 

He’s not alone, and he doesn’t have to deal with his pain alone.

 

~

 

Kurt is walking out of Dalton’s counselling centre when he sees Wes sitting on a small bench across the hall.  At his appearance, the other Warbler stands and motions for Kurt to walk with him.

 

Other students pay them no mind as they walk in silence, and Kurt wonders when he became so comfortable within these halls.

 

Approaching a small alcove filled with benches and illuminated by a multitude to windows, Wes slows to a stop, sitting with his back straight.  Kurt winces as his ribs protest the movement of sitting as he takes a place next to Wes.

 

“Doctor Georgescu is nice,” Kurt eventually says. He sees Wes nod out of the corner of his eyes.

 

“He is. He has helped me through a lot.”

 

Class has ended for the day and the halls of Dalton are relatively barren, very few students wandering by to disrupt the peace.

 

“Thank you.” Kurt looks over at Wes, eyes sincere. “Everything that you have done – it means a lot.”

 

Wes smiles and nods. “It was no problem.” He hesitates briefly before saying, “If you ever feel the need to talk – I want you to know that you can still come to me.”

 

Kurt searches Wes’ face, sees the genuine concern and friendship, and then smiles in return.

 

~

 

 

Kurt is walking, hands encased in fingerless gloves not exactly necessary for the weather, but which are necessary for his outfit.  The breeze is cool but the sun is warm, and as he feels both on his skin, he smiles. 

 

However cheesy and cliche it may be, Kurt can’t help but compare his life, the recent events in his life, as the beginnings of spring, a prelude to summer.  To something better. He knows that every day won’t be easy, and that he can’t just breeze through the rest of his life; there will be rainy days and sunny days and cloudy days.

 

At least now he isn’t stuck in some perpetual frozen state of fear and anxiety and sadness.

 

There is a small bench off to the side under a tall elm tree, the branches of which reach high overhead and provide shade, where a lone figure sits. Kurt smiles a little as he approaches, the ends of his scarf fluttering in the light wind.

 

“Kurt,” Blaine greets, standing to pull Kurt into a hug. Kurt rests his chin gently on Blaine’s shoulder and allows himself to just feel the solid form of the other boy.

 

As they pull apart and Blaine gestures for Kurt to sit next to him, Kurt asks, “How’ve you been?”

 

“Good – glad that you’re back, though,” Blaine says with a smile.

 

Kurt nods. “Yeah, me too.”

 

Kurt has only been back at Dalton for a week, but it seems like so much longer. He has bi-weekly appointments with the school counsellor, something that he isn’t comfortable with, not yet, but it isn’t as horrible as he thought it would be.

 

Telling people hasn’t made everything better; it hasn’t lifted some weight from his chest like some instantaneous miracle. Sometimes he even feels worse for it; wishes that he had kept his mouth shut and stayed vigilant.

 

But then there are the times when he wants to cry, wants to scream the unfairness of it all into the sky, and he’ll see a pair of understanding eyes looking at him. It’s not pity that his friends and family look at him with – it’s sympathy.  They might not understand exactly what he’s feeling, but they don’t blame him and they don’t want to bury what happened like some rotting corpse of a problem.

 

It is both better and worse than he ever imagined it would be.

 

The grass around his feet is green and shot-through with the shadows of the sparsely-leafed branches above, the sun glowing almost golden on the blades of grass where it shines through.  “The grounds really are beautiful in spring.”

 

Blaine smiles softly as his eyes take in the world around them. “They are. I remember my first year here, and how the spring brought everything to life and made every day seem just a little bit magical.”

 

Kurt is amused by Blaine’s thoughts, but he doesn’t disagree. There is something about the beauty of it that makes him less sad and more content.

 

Kurt knows he will never ‘get over’ what happened; he’ll carry the scars, both physical and mental, for the rest of his life.  He will feel the bite marks on his neck under his fingers; will forever associate the scent of Irish Springs soap with horror, pain and humiliation.

 

But it won’t always be fresh.  The events, his rape and assault, won’t be at the forefront of his mind everyday.  He will probably even learn to go through a day, a week, maybe a month or year, without thinking about it.

 

Yes, there might be tough times ahead – he may encounter situation that take him right back to that locker room, he might panic when someone touches him unexpectedly. But he can handle that without crumbling.

 

He knows this because he won’t let this run his life, not if he has any control over it, and he refuses to let Karofsky’s cruel actions sink him.

 

“Do you want to go for coffee?”

 

Kurt glances over at Blaine, taking in the dark curls and compassionate eyes, and shakes his head. “Not really.  Do you mind if we just stay here for a little while?”

 

The other boy nods slowly and reaches down to take his hand, which he just holds.  “Sure.”

 

Smiling at Blaine, Kurt then turns back to the landscape.  The flowers will be blooming soon, sending their colourful petals sky-ward in a display of elegance and beauty.  With the green grass and partially-leaved trees surrounding him, with Blaine’s hand holding his, he lets his expression fade.  His smile becomes more relaxed and less defined, touching his lips gently as he watches the world around him.

 

~The End~

 

 


End file.
